“Why, Marian Chase was a bridesmaid, Julie!”

“Yes, I know.  But I didn’t think the Byron Chases would go to Maude Pennell’s wedding!  But of course she’s marrying an Addison—­ that helps.  ‘Mrs. Byron Chase, lavender brocade and pearls,’” read Julia.  “Well, Maude Pennell is getting in, all right!”

“What’d Mrs. Joe Coutts wear?” Emeline asked.  Among the unknown members of the city’s smartest set she had her favourites.

“‘Mrs. Joseph Foulke Coutts,’” Julia read obligingly. ’"Red velvet robe trimmed with fox.’”

“For heaven’s sake, Julie—­with that red face!”

“And Miss Victoria Coutts in pink silk—­she’s had that dress for a year now,” Julia said.  “Well, Lord!” She yawned luxuriously.  “I wouldn’t marry Roy Addison if he was made of money—­the bum!” She pushed the paper carelessly aside.  “What you going to do to-day, Ma?” she asked lazily.

“Oh, go out,” Emeline answered vaguely, still reading a newspaper paragraph.  “Gladys has had to pay over a quarter of a million for that feller’s debts!” said she, awed.

“Well, that’s what you get for marrying a duke,” Julia answered scornfully.  “Let’s pile these, Ma, and get dressed.”

They went into the bedroom, where the gas was lighted again, the bureau pushed out from the wall, that the mirror might catch the best light, and where, in unspeakable confusion, mother and daughter began to dress.  Julia put on her smart little serge skirt, pushing it down over her hips with both hands.  Then she fixed her hair carefully, adjusted her hat, tied on a spotted white veil, and finally slipped into a much-embroidered silk shirtwaist, which mother and daughter decided was dirty, but would “do.”  Rings, bangles, and chains followed, a pair of long limp gloves, a final powdering, and a ruff of pink feathers.  Julia was not fifteen and looked fully seventeen, to her great delight.  She gave herself a sober yet approving glance in the mirror; the corners of her firm yet babyish mouth twitched with pleasure.

She locked the doors, set an empty milk bottle out on the unspeakably dreary back stairway, and flung the soggy bedding over the foot of the bed.  Then mother and daughter sauntered out into the noontime sunshine.

It was their happiest time, as free and as irresponsible as children they went forth to meet the day’s adventures.  Something was sure to happen, the “crowd” would have some plan; they rarely came home again before midnight.  But this sunshiny start into the day Was most pleasant of all, its freshness, its potentialities, appealed to them both.  It was a February day, warm and bright, yet with a delicious tingle in the air.

“Leave us go up to Min’s, Julie; some of the girls are sure to be there.  There’s no mat. to-day.”

“Well—­” Julia was smiling aimlessly at the sunlight.  Now she patted back a yawn.  “Walk?”

“Oh, sure.  It’s lovely out.”