Kate smiled to think of how her mother would be questioning her about her “admirers,” as she would phrase it in her mid-Victorian parlance.  There was really only Ray to report upon.  He would be the beau ideal “young gentleman,”—­to recur again to her mother’s phraseology,—­the son of a member of a great State Street dry-goods firm, an excellently mannered, ingratiating, traveled person with the most desirable social connections.  Kate would be able to tell of the two mansions, one on the Lake Shore Drive, the other at Lake Forest, where Ray lived with his parents.  He had not gone to an Eastern college because his father wished him to understand the city and the people among whom his life was to be spent.  Indeed, his father, Richard McCrea, had made something of a concession to custom in giving his son four years of academic life.  Ray was now to be trained in every department of that vast departmental concern, the Store, and was soon to go abroad as the promising cadet of a famous commercial establishment, to make the acquaintance of the foreign importers and agents of the house.  Oh, her mother would quite like all that, though she would be disappointed to learn that there had thus far been no rejected suitors.  In her mother’s day every fair damsel carried scalps at her belt, figuratively speaking—­and after marriage, became herself a trophy of victory.  Dear “mummy” was that, Kate thought tenderly—­a willing and reverential parasite, “ladylike” at all costs, contented to have her husband provide for her, her pastor think for her, and Martha Underwood, the domineering “help” in the house at Silvertree, do the rest.  Kate knew “mummy’s” mind very well—­knew how she looked on herself as sacred because she had been the mother to one child and a good wife to one husband.  She was all swathed around in the chiffon-sentiment of good Victoria’s day.  She didn’t worry about being a “consumer” merely.  None of the disturbing problems that were shaking femininity disturbed her calm.  She was “a lady,” the “wife of a professional man.”  It was proper that she should “be well cared for.”  She moved by her well-chosen phrases; they were like rules set in a copybook for her guidance.

Kate seemed to see a moving-picture show of her mother’s days.  Now she was pouring the coffee from the urn, seasoning it scrupulously to suit her lord and master, now arranging the flowers, now feeding the goldfish; now polishing the glass with tissue paper.  Then she answered the telephone for her husband, the doctor,—­answered the door, too, sometimes.  She received calls and paid them, read the ladies’ magazines, and knew all about what was “fitting for a lady.”  Of course, she had her prejudices.  She couldn’t endure Oriental rugs, and didn’t believe that smuggling was wrong; at least, not when done by the people one knew and when the things smuggled were pretty.

Kate, who had the spirit of the liberal comedian, smiled many times remembering these things.  Then she sighed, for she realized that her ability to see these whimsicalities meant that she and her mother were, after all, creatures of diverse training and thought.