Mrs. Megilp had advised the Ledwiths to buy a house in Z——.  “It was just far enough not to be suburban, but to have a society of its own; and there was excellent society in Z——­, everybody knew.  Boston was hard work, nowadays; the distances were getting to be so great.”  Up to the West and South Ends,—­the material distances,—­she meant to be understood to say; but there was an inner sense to Mrs. Megilp’s utterances, also.

“One might as well be quite out of town; and then it was always something, even in such city connection as one might care to keep up, to hail from a well-recognized social independency; to belong to Z——­ was a standing, always.  It wasn’t like going to Forest Dell, or Lakegrove, or Bellair; cheap little got-up places with fancy names, that were strung out on the railroads like French gilt beads on a chain.”

But for all that, Mrs. Ledwith had only got into “And;” and Mrs. Megilp knew it.

Laura did not realize it much; she had bowing and speaking acquaintance with the Haddens and the Hendees, and even with the Marchbankses, over on West Hill; and the Goldthwaites and the Holabirds, down in the town, she knew very well.  She did not care to come much nearer; she did not want to be bound by any very stringent and exclusive social limits; it was a bother to keep up to all the demands of such a small, old-established set.  Mrs. Hendee would not notice, far less be impressed by the advent of her new-style Brussels carpet with a border, or her full, fresh, Nottingham lace curtains, or the new covering of her drawing-room set with cuir-colored terry.  Mrs. Tom Friske and Mrs. Philgry, down here at East Square, would run in, and appreciate, and admire, and talk it all over, and go away perhaps breaking the tenth commandment amiably in their hearts.

Mrs. Ledwith’s nerves had extended since we saw her as a girl; they did not then go beyond the floating ends of her blue or rose-colored ribbons, or, at furthest, the tip of her jaunty laced sunshade; now they ramified,—­for life still grows in some direction,—­to her chairs, and her china, and her curtains, and her ruffled pillow-shams.  Also, savingly, to her children’s “suits,” and party dresses, and pic-nic hats, and double button gloves.  Savingly; for there is a leaven of grace in mother-care, even though it be expended upon these.  Her friend, Mrs. Inchdeepe, in Helvellyn Park, with whom she dined when she went shopping in Boston, had nothing but her modern improvements and her furniture.  “My house is my life,” she used to say, going round with a Canton crape duster, touching tenderly carvings and inlayings and gildings.

Mrs. Megilp was spending the day with Laura Ledwith; Glossy was gone to town, and thence down to the sea-shore, with some friends.

Mrs. Megilp spent a good many days with Laura.  She had large, bright rooms at her boarding-house, but then she had very gristly veal pies and thin tapioca puddings for dinner; and Mrs. Megilp’s constitution required something more generous.  She was apt to happen in at this season, when Laura had potted pigeons.  A little bird told her; a dozen little birds, I mean, with their legs tied together in a bunch; for she could see the market wagon from her window, when it turned up Mr. Ledwith’s avenue.