“Not in the least!” She was sure of that, “And anyway,” she went on decidedly, “I’m not going to the club so much this summer.  Mary Brown and I went yesterday, and there was—­well, I suppose it was a good paper on ‘The Mind of the Child,’ by Miss Sarah Rich.  But it seemed so flat.  And Mary Brown said, coming away, ’I think Doctor and I will still come to the monthly receptions, but I believe I won’t listen to any more papers like that.  They’re all very well for people who have no children—­’”

“Well, by Tuesday night you’ll have three!” said Walter, with what was for him great gaiety of manner.

“Walter,” his sister suggested nervously, “you’ll be awfully affectionate with Lizzie, won’t you?  Be sure to tell her that we want them; and tell her that they’ll be playing up at the Hall all summer, as we used to.  You know, I’ve been thinking, Walter,” went on the poor lady, with her nose suddenly growing red and her eyes watering, “that I’ve not been a very good sister to Lizzie.  She’s the youngest, and Mother—­Mother wasn’t here to advise her about her marriage, and—­and now I don’t write her; and she wrote me that Betty had a cough, and Davy was so noisy indoors in wet weather—­and I just go to the Club to hear papers upon ‘Napoleon’ and ’The Mind of the Child.’” And Miss Anne, beginning to cry outright, leaned back in her chair, and covered her face with her handkerchief.

“Well, Anne—­well, Anne,” her brother said huskily, “we’ll make it up now.  Where are you going to put them?” he presently added, with an inspiration.

Miss Pratt straightened up, blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and rang for the maid.

“Betty and Hope in the big front room—­” she began happily.

Another brief conversation, this time between George Carew and his wife, was indicative of a certain change of view-point that was affecting the women of Santa Paloma in these days.  Mr. Carew, coming home one evening, found a very demure and charming figure seated on the porch.  Mrs. Carew’s gown was simplicity itself:  a thin, dotted, dark blue silk, with a deep childish lace collar and cuffs.

“You look terribly sweet, Jen,” said Mr. Carew; “you look out of sight.”  And when he came downstairs again, and they were at dinner, he returned to the subject with, “Jen, I haven’t seen you look so sweet for a long time.  What is that, a new dress?  Is that for the reception on the Fourth?  Jen, didn’t you have a dress like that when we were first married?”

“Sorrel made this, and it only cost sixty dollars,” said Mrs. Carew.

“Well, get her to make you another,” her husband said approvingly.  At which Mrs. Carew laughed a little shakily, and came around the table, and put her arms about him and said: 

“Oh, George, you dear old Bat!  Miss Pomeroy made this, upstairs here, in three days, and the silk cost nine dollars.  I did have a dress like this in my trousseau—­my first silk—­and I thought it was wonderful; and I think you’re a darling to remember it; and I am going to wear this on the Fourth.  It’s nice enough, isn’t it?”