“Whom on earth can we marry them to?” asked Mrs. Kingsley.  “Most of the older men, the bachelors who’re eligible haven’t any use for these girls except to play with them.  True, these young boys only think of little but dances, car-rides, and sneaking off alone to spoon—­they get engaged to this girl and that one.  But nothing comes of it.”

“You’re wrong.  Never in my time have I seen girls find lovers and husbands as easily as now,” declared Mrs. Wrapp.  “Nor get rid of them so quickly....  Jane, you can marry Margaret.  She’s pretty and sweet even if you have spoiled her.  The years are slipping by.  Margaret ought to marry.  She’s not strong enough to work.  Marriage for her would make things so much easier for you.”

With that parting dig Mrs. Wrapp rose to go.  Whereupon she and Mrs. Kingsley, with gracious words of invitation and farewell, took themselves off leaving Mrs. Maynard contending with an outraged spirit.  Certain terse remarks of the crude and practical Mrs. Wrapp had forced to her mind a question that of late had assumed cardinal importance, and now had been brought to an issue by a proposal for Margaret’s hand.  Her daughter was a great expense, really more than could longer be borne in these times of enormous prices and shrunken income.  A husband had been found for Margaret, and the matter could be adjusted easily enough, if the girl did not meet it with the incomprehensible obstinacy peculiar to her of late.

Mrs. Maynard found the fair object of her hopes seated in the middle of her room with the bright contents of numerous boxes and drawers strewn in glittering heaps around her.

“Margaret, what on earth are you doing there?” she demanded.

“I’m looking for a little picture Holt Dalrymple gave me when we went to school together,” responded Margaret.

“Aren’t you ever going to grow up?  You’ll be hunting for your dolls next.”

“I will if I like,” said the daughter, in a tone that did not manifest a seraphic mood.

“Don’t you feel well?” inquired the mother, solicitously.  Margaret was frail and subject to headaches that made her violent.

“Oh, I’m well enough.”

“My dear,” rejoined Mrs. Maynard, changing the topic.  “I’m sorry to tell you Daren Lane has lost his standing in Middleville.”

The hum and the honk of a motor-car sounded in the street.

“Poor Daren!  What’s he done?...  Any old day he’ll care!”

Mrs. Maynard was looking out of the window.  “Here comes a crowd of girls....  Helen Wrapp has a new suit.  Well, I’ll go down.  And after they leave I want a serious talk with you.”

“Not if I see you first!” muttered Margaret, under her breath, as her mother walked out.

Presently, following gay talk and laughter down stairs, a bevy of Margaret’s friends entered her boudoir.

“Hello, old socks!” was Helen’s greeting.  “You look punk.”