“No, mother,” replied Adelaide; “but we—­we’ve broken our engagement, and—­What Artie says is true.”

No one spoke for a full minute, though the air seemed to buzz with the thinking and feeling.  Then, Mrs. Ranger:  “Your father mustn’t hear of this.”

“Leave me alone with mother, Artie,” commanded Adelaide.

Arthur went, pausing in the doorway to say:  “I’m sorry to have hurt you, Del.  But I meant every word, only not in anger or meanness.  I know you won’t do it when you’ve thought it over.”

When Arthur had had time to get far enough away, Adelaide said:  “Mother, I want you to hear the whole truth—­or as much of it as I know myself.  Ross came and broke off our engagement so that he could marry Theresa Howland.  And I’ve engaged myself to Dory—­partly to cover it, but not altogether, I hope.  Not principally, I believe.  I’m sick and ashamed of the kind of things I’ve been so crazy about these last few years.  Before this happened, before Ross came, being with father and thinking over everything had made me see with different eyes.  And I—­I want to try to be—­what a woman ought to be.”

Ellen Ranger slowly rolled her front hair under her fingers.  At length she said:  “Well—­I ain’t sorry you’ve broke off with Ross.  I’ve been noticing the Whitneys and their goings on for some time.  I saw they’d got clean out of my class, and—­I’m glad my daughter hasn’t.  There’s a common streak in those Whitneys.  I never did like Ross, though I never would have said anything, as you seemed to want him, and your father had always been set on it, and thought so high of him.  He laid himself out to make your pa think he was a fine character and full of business—­and I ain’t denying that he’s smart, mighty smart—­too smart to suit me.”  A long reflective pause, then:  “But—­Dory—­Well, my advice is to think it over before you jump clear in.  Of course, you’ll have enough for both, but I’d rather see you taking up with some man that’s got a good business.  Teachin’ ‘s worse than preachin’ as a business.  Still, there’s plenty of time to think about that.  You’re only engaged.”

“Teachin’ ‘s worse than preachin’”—­Adelaide’s new, or, rather, revived democracy was an aspiration rather than an actuality, was—­as to the part above the soil, at least—­a not very vigorous looking forced growth through sordid necessity.  In this respect it was like many, perhaps most, human aspirations—­and, like them, it was far more likely to wither than to flourish.  “Teachin’ ‘s worse than preachin’”—­Del began to slip dismally down from the height to which Arthur’s tactless outburst had blown her.  Down, and down, and down, like a punctured balloon—­gently, but steadily, dishearteningly.  She was ashamed of herself, as ashamed as any reader of these chronicles is for her—­any reader with one standard for judging other people and another for judging himself.  To the credit of her character must be set down her shame at her snobbishness.  The snobbishness itself should not be set down to her discredit, but should be charged up to that class feeling, as old as property, and fostered and developed by almost every familiar fact in our daily environment.