“Susan!  Why, Susan!” Her cousin turned a shocked face from the window where she was carefully pasting newly-washed handkerchiefs, to dry in the night.  “Do you remember who you are, dear, and don’t say dreadful things like that!”

In the next few days Susan pressed her one suit, laundered a score of little ruffles and collars, cleaned her gloves, sewed on buttons and strings generally, and washed her hair.  Late on Sunday came the joyful necessity of packing.  Mary Lou folded and refolded patiently, Georgie came in with a little hand-embroidered handkerchief-case for Susan’s bureau, Susan herself rushed about like a mad-woman, doing almost nothing.

“You’ll be back inside the month,” said Billy that evening, looking up from Carlyle’s “Revolution,” to where Susan and Mary Lou were busy with last stitches, at the other side of the dining-room table.  “You can’t live with the rotten rich any more than I could!”

“Billy, you don’t know how awfully conceited you sound when you say a thing like that!”

“Conceited?  Oh, all right!” Mr. Oliver accompanied the words with a sound only to be described as a snort, and returned, offended, to his book.

“Conceited, well, maybe I am,” he resumed with deadly calm, a moment later.  “But there’s no conceit in my saying that people like the Saunders can’t buffalo me!”

“You may not see it, but there is!” persisted Susan.

“You give me a pain, Sue!  Do you honestly think they are any better than you are?”

“Of course they’re not better,” Susan said, heatedly, “if it comes right down to morals and the Commandments!  But if I prefer to spend my life among people who have had several generations of culture and refinement and travel and education behind them, it’s my own affair!  I like nice people, and rich people are more refined than poor, and nobody denies it!  I may feel sorry for a girl who marries a man on forty a week, and brings up four or five little kids on it, but that doesn’t mean I want to do it myself!  And I think a man has his nerve to expect it!”

“I didn’t make you an offer, you know, Susan,” said William pleasantly.

“I didn’t mean you!” Susan answered angrily.  Then with sudden calm and sweetness, she resumed, busily tearing up and assorting old letters the while, “But now you’re trying to make me mad, Billy, and you don’t care what you say.  The trouble with you,” she went on, with sisterly kindness and frankness, “is that you think you are the only person who really ought to get on in the world.  You know so much, and study so hard, that you deserve to be rich, so that you can pension off every old stupid German laborer at the works who still wants a job when they can get a boy of ten to do his work better than he can!  You mope away over there at those cottages, Bill, until you think the only important thing in the world is the price of sausages in proportion to wages.  And for all that you pretend to despise people who use decent English, and don’t think a bath-tub is a place to store potatoes; I notice that you are pretty anxious to study languages and hear good music and keep up in your reading, yourself!  And if that’s not cultivation—–­”