This invitation from Miss Sherwood was an ordeal she had never counted on.  She had watched the fine ladies at the millinery shop and while selling cigarettes at the Ritzmore, when she had been modeling her manners, and had believed herself just as fine a lady as they.  But that had been in the abstract.  Now she was face to face with a situation that was painfully concrete—­a real test:  she had to place herself into close contrast with, and under the close observation of, a real lady, and in that lady’s own home.  And in all her life she had not once been in a fine home!  In fine hotels, yes—­but fine hotels were the common refuge of butcher, baker, floor-walker, thief, swell, and each had approximately the same attention; and all she now felt she had really learned were a few such matters as the use of table silver and finger bowls.

It came to her that Barney, in his moment of doubt, had spoken more soundly than he had imagined when he had said that it was easier to fool a man about a woman than it was to fool a woman.  How tragically true that was!  While trying to learn to be a lady by working in smart shops, she had learned that the occasional man who had ventured in after woman’s gear was hopelessly ignorant and bought whatever was skillfully thrust upon him, but that it was impossible to slip an inferior or unsuitable or out-dated article over on the woman who really knew.

And Miss Sherwood was the kind of woman who really knew!  Who knew everything.  Could she possibly, possibly pass herself off on Miss Sherwood as the genuine article? . . .

Could Larry have foreseen the very real misery—­for any doubt of her own qualities, any fear of her ability to carry herself well in any situation, are among the most acute of a proud woman’s miseries—­which for some twenty-four hours was brought upon Maggie by the well-meant intrigue of which he was pulling the hidden strings, he might, because of his love for Maggie, have discarded his design even while he was creating it, and have sought a measure pregnant with less distress.  But perhaps it was just as well that Larry did not know.  Perhaps, even, it was just as well that he did not know what his grandmother knew.

Maggie’s pride would not let her evade the risk; and her instinct for self-preservation dictated that she should reduce the risk to its minimum.  So she wrote her acceptance—­Miss Grierson attended to the phrasing of her note—­but expressed her regret that she would be able to come only for the tea-hour.  Drinking tea must be much the same, reasoned Maggie, whether it be drunk in a smart hotel or in a smart country home.

Maggie’s native shrewdness suggested her simplest summer gown as likely to have committed the fewest errors, and the invaluable stupidity of Miss Grierson aided her toward correctness if not originality.  When Dick came he was delighted with her appearance.  On the way out he was ebulliently excited in his talk.  Maggie averaged a fair degree of sensibility in her responses, though only her ears heard him.  She was far more excited than he, and every moment her excitement mounted, for every moment she was speeding nearer the greatest ordeal of her life.