rather a poor opinion of Mrs. Fairford’s social standing, and for a moment she thought with considerable satisfaction of answering the note on her pigeon-blood paper.  Then she remembered Mrs. Heeny’s emphatic commendation of Mrs. Fairford, and her pen wavered.  What if white paper were really newer than pigeon blood?  It might be more stylish, anyhow.  Well, she didn’t care if Mrs. Fairford didn’t like red paper—­she did!  And she wasn’t going to truckle to any woman who lived in a small house down beyond Park Avenue...

Undine was fiercely independent and yet passionately imitative.  She wanted to surprise every one by her dash and originality, but she could not help modelling herself on the last person she met, and the confusion of ideals thus produced caused her much perturbation when she had to choose between two courses.  She hesitated a moment longer, and then took from the drawer a plain sheet with the hotel address.

It was amusing to write the note in her mother’s name—­she giggled as she formed the phrase “I shall be happy to permit my daughter to take dinner with you” ("take dinner” seemed more elegant than Mrs. Fairford’s “dine")—­but when she came to the signature she was met by a new difficulty.  Mrs. Fairford had signed herself “Laura Fairford”—­just as one school-girl would write to another.  But could this be a proper model for Mrs. Spragg?  Undine could not tolerate the thought of her mother’s abasing herself to a denizen of regions beyond Park Avenue, and she resolutely formed the signature:  “Sincerely, Mrs. Abner E. Spragg.”  Then uncertainty overcame her, and she re-wrote her note and copied Mrs. Fairford’s formula:  “Yours sincerely, Leota B. Spragg.”  But this struck her as an odd juxtaposition of formality and freedom, and she made a third attempt:  “Yours with love, Leota B. Spragg.”  This, however, seemed excessive, as the ladies had never met; and after several other experiments she finally decided on a compromise, and ended the note:  “Yours sincerely, Mrs. Leota B. Spragg.”  That might be conventional.  Undine reflected, but it was certainly correct.  This point settled, she flung open her door, calling imperiously down the passage:  “Celeste!” and adding, as the French maid appeared:  “I want to look over all my dinner-dresses.”

Considering the extent of Miss Spragg’s wardrobe her dinner-dresses were not many.  She had ordered a number the year before but, vexed at her lack of use for them, had tossed them over impatiently to the maid.  Since then, indeed, she and Mrs. Spragg had succumbed to the abstract pleasure of buying two or three more, simply because they were too exquisite and Undine looked too lovely in them; but she had grown tired of these also—­tired of seeing them hang unworn in her wardrobe, like so many derisive points of interrogation.  And now, as Celeste spread them out on the bed, they seemed disgustingly common-place, and as familiar as if she had danced them to shreds.  Nevertheless, she yielded to the maid’s persuasions and tried them on.