Ethel even went out twice to their detestable parties, in the faint hope of finding one woman at least she would care to know.  But if there had been any such, Fanny was careful to leave them out.

Friends, friends, friends of her own!  Where to find them?  On the streets, as she went about at her shopping, she saw so many attractive people, and she drew their glances, too.  She had developed since her marriage; she had a distinctive beauty, and she had learned how to foster that.  Almost always she felt the hungry eyes of men, good, bad and indifferent, rich men, beggars, Christians, Jews.  But that of course was only annoying.  Ethel wanted women friends.  On the street, from her elegant little car, she could see women who were walking glance at her with envy, just as she herself had done in her first year in the city.  The thought brought a humorous smile to her lips.  And looking at the constant stream of motors passing, she inquired, “How many of us are there, in this imposing procession, who haven’t a single friend in town?” How they all passed on.  How coolly indifferent, self-absorbed!  Was there no entering wedge to their lives?

But her youth would rise with a sudden rush in her warm body, so smartly dressed, so tingling with ardent health, and glancing into the glass in her car and making a little face at herself, she would exclaim: 

“Oh, fiddlesticks!  All this is going to have a nice fine happy ending!  Nothing awful is to happen to me!”

At one such time, as though interrupted, she leaned quickly and graciously forward, as she had seen women do in the Park, and bowed with a cordial little smile—­to a vacant lot—­and then turning back to the imagined friend at her side, she said sweetly, “Excuse me, dear.  What were you saying?  Why yes, we’d love to.  Thursday night?  What time do you dine?” A lump rose in her throat.  “Now, Ethel, Ethel, you soft little fool—­you’re only twenty-five, you know.  And of all the adorable babies waiting in a nursery—­”

One day she found Fifth Avenue crammed and jammed with a huge parade.  She had her chauffeur get as close as he could, and with intent and curious eyes she watched the suffragists march by.  What hosts and hosts of women, how jolly and how friendly.  Oh, what a lark they were having together!  Why not join them, then and there?  For an instant she thought of leaving her car and falling right in with some marching group.  “But how do I know they won’t turn me down?” She waited and lost courage.  Soon she saw marching ahead of one section a smartly dressed woman whose photograph she had often seen in the papers.  At this Ethel’s courage oozed again, and with a pang of envy she thought: 

“Oh, yes, this is all very fine for you!  You’re so safe and settled here; you’ve got position—­everything!”

In a moment she felt this was small and mean.  The envy and the bitterness passed.  She watched other women, such confident, easy, bright-looking creatures—­not at all like Amy’s set—­who looked as though they could preside at big meetings or at their own tables at home, and be gracious and say witty things to the clever men at their sides.  Behind them came whole regiments of women and girls of a simpler kind.  Some of them earned their own living, no doubt—­yes, and had to work hard to do it.