“Why self-sacrifice?” asked Del, irritated.  “She couldn’t possibly go home, could she?  And she is fond of Lorry’s mother.”

“Yes, of course.  No doubt she’s a dear, lovely old woman.  But—­a washerwoman, and constant, daily contact—­and not as lady and servant, but on what must be, after all, a sort of equality—­” Janet finished her sentence with a ladylike look.

Adelaide burned with the resentment of the new convert.  “A woman who brought into the world and brought up such a son as Lorry was,” said she, “needn’t yield to anybody.”  Then the silliness of arguing such a matter with Madame la Marquise de Saint Berthe came over her.  “You and I don’t look at life from the same standpoint, Janet,” she added, smiling.  “You see, you’re a lady, and I’m not—­any more.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Janet, the devoid of the sense of humor, hastened to assure her earnestly.  “You know we in France don’t feel as they do in America, that one gets or loses caste when one gets or loses money.  Besides, Dory is in a profession that is quite aristocratic, and those lectures he delivered at Goettingen are really talked about everywhere on the other side.”

But Adelaide refused to be consoled.  “No, I’m not a lady—­not what you’d call a lady, even as a Frenchwoman.”

“Oh, but I’m a good American!” Janet protested, suddenly prudent and rushing into the pretenses our transplanted and acclimatized sisters are careful to make when talking with us of the land whence comes their sole claim to foreign aristocratic consideration—­their income.  “I’m really quite famous for my Americanism.  I’ve done a great deal toward establishing our ambassador at Paris in the best society.  Coming from a republic and to a republic that isn’t recognized by our set in France, he was having a hard time, though he and his wife are all right at home.  Now that there are more gentlemen in authority at Washington, our diplomats are of a much better class than they used to be.  Everyone over there says so.  Of course, you—­that is we, are gradually becoming civilized and building up an aristocracy.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Adelaide, feeling that she must change the subject or show her exasperation, yet unable to find any subject which Janet would not adorn with refined and cultured views.  “Isn’t Ross, there, looking for you?”

He had just rushed from the house, his face, his manner violently agitated.  As he saw Adelaide looking at him, he folded and put in his pocket a letter which seemed to be the cause of his agitation.  When the two young women came to where he was standing, he joined them and walked up and down with them, his sister, between him and Del, doing all the talking.  Out of the corner of her eye Del saw that his gaze was bent savagely upon the ground and that his struggle for self-control was still on.  At the first opportunity she said:  “I must get mother.  We’ll have to be going.”

“Oh, no, not yet,” urged Janet, sincerity strong in her affected accents.  Del felt that the sister, for some reason, as strongly wished not to be left alone with the brother as the brother wished to be left alone with the sister.  In confirmation of this, Janet went on to say:  “Anyhow, Ross will tell your mother.”