“But it’s over a stable, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Fowler.  “How could you possibly live there?  And the East Side way down there is just as bad as up here”

“I believe there is a stable, but it won’t bother us—­we’re too high,” replied Patty.

“Well, we can’t stop; Gabriella hasn’t unpacked her trunks,” returned Mrs. Fowler; “but be sure to come early, Patty.  I want your father to see you.”

“I wish there wasn’t going to be anybody else.  I want to talk to my sister.  Isn’t it lovely to have a sister, and mamma was too selfish to give me one.  Do you call her ‘mamma,’ too, Gabriella?”

“Of course she calls me ‘mamma,’” answered Mrs. Fowler before Gabriella could speak, “and she is a much better daughter already than you ever were.”

“And a much better son, too, than George ever was?” asked Patty slyly.

“We aren’t talking about George.  George has settled down,” said Mrs. Fowler quickly, too quickly it occurred to Gabriella, who was eager to hear all that the daring Patty would say.  “Don’t you think those white furs look well on Gabriella?”

“She looks like the snow queen in them.  Does it matter what I wear to-night?  Who is coming?”

“Nobody you will care about—­only Judge and Mrs. Crowborough and Colonel Buffington.”

“That old bore of a colonel!  And why do you have to ask the judge again so soon?  He looks like a turkey gobbler, Gabriella, and he has so much money that it is impossible to judge him by the standards of other people, everybody says that—­even Billy.”

“Hush, Patty.  You mustn’t corrupt Gabriella.”

“If the judge doesn’t, I shan’t, mamma.”

“Well, your father has the greatest respect for him, and as for asking him often to dinner, it isn’t by any means so easy to get him as you think.  I don’t suppose there’s another man in New York who is invited out so often and goes out so little.”

“Papa is a sweet innocent,” observed Patty maliciously, “but if you can stand the judge, mamma, dear, I am sure I can, especially as I shan’t have to sit by him.  That honour will be reserved for poor Gabriella.  I wish you didn’t have to go, but you really must, I suppose?”

“Yes, we must go.  Come, Gabriella, or you won’t have time to get into your trunks before dinner.”

On the drive home Mrs. Fowler was grimly silent, while the sweetness about her mouth ebbed slowly away, leaving the faintest quiver of the muscles.  For the first time Gabriella saw George’s mother look as she must look in her sleep, when the artificial cheerfulness of her expression faded into the profound unconsciousness which drowns not only happiness, but the very pretence of happiness.  So here, also, was insincerity, here, also, was the striving, not for realities, but for appearances!  In a different form she saw her mother’s struggle again—­that struggle, without beginning and without end, which moved always in a circle and led nowhere.  Was