“After all,” Mrs. Megilp said privately to the mother, “there is something quietly aristocratic in an old, plain, family name.  I don’t know that it isn’t good taste in the child.  Everybody understands that it was a condition, and an inheritance.”

Mrs. Megilp had taken care of that.  She was watchful for the small impressions she could make in behalf of her particular friends.  She carried about with her a little social circumference in which all was preeminently as it should be.

But,—­as I would say if you could not see it for yourself—­this is a digression.  We will go back again.

“If it were any use!” said Desire, shaking out the deep plaits as she unfastened them from the band.  “But you’re only a piece of everybody after all.  You haven’t anything really new or particular to yourself, when you’ve done.  And it takes up so much time.  Last year, this was so pretty! Isn’t anything actually pretty in itself, or can’t they settle what it is?  I should think they had been at it long enough.”

“Fashions never were so graceful as they are this minute,” said Mrs. Megilp.  “Of course it is art, like everything else, and progress.  The world is getting educated to a higher refinement in it, every day.  Why, it’s duty, child!” she continued, exaltedly.  “Think what the world would be if nobody cared.  We ought to make life beautiful.  It’s meant to be.  There’s not only no virtue in ugliness, but almost no virtue with it, I think.  People are more polite and good-natured when they are well dressed and comfortable.”

“That’s dress, too, though,” said Desire, sententiously.  “You’ve got to stay at home four days, and rip, and be tired, and cross, and tried-on-to, and have no chance to do anything else, before you can put it all on and go out and be good-natured and bland, and help put the beautiful face on the world, one day.  I don’t believe it’s political economy.”

“Everybody doesn’t have to do it for themselves.  Really, when I hear people blamed for dress and elegance,—­why, the very ones who have the most of it are those who sacrifice the least time to it.  They just go and order what they want, and there’s the end of it.  When it comes home, they put it on, and it might as well be a flounced silk as a plain calico.”

“But we do have to think, Mrs. Megilp.  And work and worry.  And then we can’t turn right round in the things we know every stitch of and have bothered over from beginning to end, and just be lilies of the field!”

“A great many people do have to wash their own dishes, and sweep, and scour; but that is no reason it ought not to be done.  I always thought it was rather a pity that was said, just so,” Mrs. Megilp proceeded, with a mild deprecation of the Scripture.  “There is toiling and spinning; and will be to the end of time, for some of us.”

“There’s cauliflower brought for dinner, Mrs. Ledwith,” said Christina, the parlor girl, coming in.  “And Hannah says it won’t go with the pigeons.  Will she put it on the ice for to-morrow?”