With the sturdy independence which was so deep a part of her, Ethel strove to hold up her end of these intent conversations and show that she had views of her own.  She was no old-fashioned country girl, but modern, something different!  They had discussed things in her club which would have shocked their mothers, discussed them long and seriously.  They had spoken of marriage and divorce, of love and having children, and then had gone eagerly on to suffrage, jobs and “mental science,” art, music and the rest of life.  She had gathered there an image of New York as a glittering region of strong clever men and fascinating women, who not only loved to dance but held the most brilliant discussions at dinners livened by witty remarks—­a place of vistas opening into a world of great ideas.  And now with her older sister, she questioned her about it all, the art and all the “movements,” the “salons” and the clever talk.  She asked: 

“Do you know any suffragists?  Do you know any men who write plays or novels, or any musicians or painters—­or actresses?” And again and again by an air of assurance Ethel tried to hide her dismay, as her sister subtly made all this seem like a school-girl’s fancies.

“Yes,” Amy would say good-humouredly, “there are such people, I suppose—­plenty of them, all over town.  And they talk and talk and hold meetings, and they go to high-brow plays—­and some women even work.  But it doesn’t sound very thrilling, does it?  I don’t know.  They never seem to me quite real.”

And then Amy would go on to hint what did seem real to her in life.  And again that picture of the town, all centred on what emerged from the shops and poured into the cafes to dance, was painted for her sister.

But behind her smiling manner of one with an intimate knowledge of life, Amy would glance at the girl by her side in a curious, rather anxious way.  For vaguely she knew that years ago when she herself had come to New York, she too had had dreams and imaginings of what her young sister called “the real thing.”  And she knew that these had dropped away—­at first in the struggle, which for her had been so intense and narrowing, to gain a foothold in the town; then through rebuffs from the clever friends of Joe Lanier when she married him; and later through a feeling of lazy acceptance of her lot.  But Ethel’s talk and Ethel’s eyes recalled what had been left behind.  And Amy thought of her present friends, and again with a little uneasy pang she put off their meeting with Ethel.  For they did not seem good to her then, and the picture she found herself painting of their lives and her own appeared a bit flat and trivial in the light of Ethel’s eagerness.  They dressed and went shopping, they went to tea dances, they dined in cafes or in their homes, rushed off in taxis to musical plays, and had supper and danced.  They loved and were loved, they “played the game.”

“My dear,” she said decisively, “it’s not what you say that interests men; it’s how you look and what you have on.”