Hitherto Undine had imagined that the Driscoll and Van Degen clans and their allies held undisputed suzerainty over New York society.  Mabel Lipscomb thought so too, and was given to bragging of her acquaintance with a Mrs. Spoff, who was merely a second cousin of Mrs. Harmon B. Driscoll’s.  Yet here was she.  Undine Spragg of Apex, about to be introduced into an inner circle to which Driscolls and Van Degens had laid siege in vain!  It was enough to make her feel a little dizzy with her triumph—­to work her up into that state of perilous self-confidence in which all her worst follies had been committed.

She stood up and, going close to the glass, examined the reflection of her bright eyes and glowing cheeks.  This time her fears were superfluous:  there were to be no more mistakes and no more follies now!  She was going to know the right people at last—­she was going to get what she wanted!

As she stood there, smiling at her happy image, she heard her father’s voice in the room beyond, and instantly began to tear off her dress, strip the long gloves from her arms and unpin the rose in her hair.  Tossing the fallen finery aside, she slipped on a dressing-gown and opened the door into the drawing-room.

Mr. Spragg was standing near her mother, who sat in a drooping attitude, her head sunk on her breast, as she did when she had one of her “turns.”  He looked up abruptly as Undine entered.

“Father—­has mother told you?  Mrs. Fairford has asked me to dine.  She’s Mrs. Paul Marvell’s daughter—­Mrs. Marvell was a Dagonet—­and they’re sweller than anybody; they won’t know the Driscolls and Van Degens!”

Mr. Spragg surveyed her with humorous fondness.

“That so?  What do they want to know you for, I wonder?” he jeered.

“Can’t imagine—­unless they think I’ll introduce you!” she jeered back in the same key, her arms around his stooping shoulders, her shining hair against his cheek.

“Well—­and are you going to?  Have you accepted?” he took up her joke as she held him pinioned; while Mrs. Spragg, behind them, stirred in her seat with a little moan.

Undine threw back her head, plunging her eyes in his, and pressing so close that to his tired elderly sight her face was a mere bright blur.

“I want to awfully,” she declared, “but I haven’t got a single thing to wear.”

Mrs. Spragg, at this, moaned more audibly.  “Undine, I wouldn’t ask father to buy any more clothes right on top of those last bills.”

“I ain’t on top of those last bills yet—­I’m way down under them,” Mr. Spragg interrupted, raising his hands to imprison his daughter’s slender wrists.

“Oh, well—­if you want me to look like a scarecrow, and not get asked again, I’ve got a dress that’ll do perfectly,” Undine threatened, in a tone between banter and vexation.

Mr. Spragg held her away at arm’s length, a smile drawing up the loose wrinkles about his eyes.