The girl had grown very handsome.  Her joyous, radiant colouring was contradicted by her serious expression, her proud, unsmiling mouth.  Her eyes were dark, her colouring softly dark; she had the velvety, tawny skin that usually accompanies dark hair.  Yet her hair was a pure and exquisite gold.  She wore it fluffed over her ears, cut in a bang across her forehead, and “clubbed” on her neck, in a rather absurd and artificial fashion.  But the effect of her grave little face and severe expression, with this opulent gold, and her red lips and round blue eyes, was very piquant.  Even powder, earrings, and “clubbing” her hair did not rob Julia of the appearance of a sweet, wilful, and petulant child.  Besides the powder and earrings, she indulged in cologne, in open-work silk stockings and high heels, in chains and rings and bracelets; she wore little corsets, at fourteen, and laced them tight.

Julia’s mind, at this time, was a curious little whirlpool.  She had the natural arrogance of her years; she felt that she had nothing to learn.  She had an affectionate contempt for her mother, and gave advice more often than she accepted it from Emeline.  Julia naturally loved order and cleanliness, but she never came in contact with them.  Emeline sometimes did not air or make her bed for weeks at a time.  She washed only such dishes as were absolutely necessary for the next meal.  She never sent out a bundle to the laundry, but washed handkerchiefs and some underwear herself, at erratic intervals, drying them on windows, or the backs of various chairs.  Emeline always had a pair or more of silk stockings soaking in a little bowl of cold suds in the bedroom, and occasionally carried a waist or a lace petticoat to the little French laundress on Powell Street, and drove a sharp bargain with her.  Julia accepted the situation very cheerfully; she and her mother both enjoyed their lazy, aimless existence, and to Julia, at least, the future was full of hope.  She could do any one of a dozen things that would lead to fame and fortune.

The particular day that opened for her with two hours of quiet reading progressed like any other day.  The mother and daughter arose, got their breakfast in the kitchen, and sat long over it, sharing the papers, the hot coffee, the cream, and dividing evenly the little French loaf.  Julia’s nightgown was as limp as her mother’s, her kimono as dirty, and her feet were thrust in fur slippers, originally white, now gray.  But her fresh young colour, and the rich loops and waves of her golden hair, her firm young breasts under her thin wraps, and the brave blue of her eyes made her a very different picture from her mother, who sat opposite, a vision of disorder, feasting her eyes upon the girl.

There was a murder story, of which mother and daughter read every word, and a society wedding to discuss.

“The Chases went,” said Julia, dipping her bread in her coffee, her eyes on the paper.  “Isn’t that the limit!”