than New York, and might be anything from a
milliner to a mondaine; a keen-looking youngster with tortoise-shell
spectacles; finally, Ruth's elder brother, Mason J. Winslow, Jr., a
tall, thin, solemn, intensely well-intentioned man of thirty-seven,
with a long, clean-shaven face, and a long, narrow head whose growing
baldness was always spoken of as a result of his hard work. Mason J.
Winslow, Jr., spoke hesitatingly, worried over everything, and stood
for morality and good business. He was rather dull in conversation,
rather kind in manner, and accomplished solid things by
unimaginatively sticking at them. He didn't understand people who did
not belong to a good club.

Carl contributed a few careful platitudes to a frivolous discussion of
whether it would not be advisable to solve the woman-suffrage question
by taking the vote away from men and women both and conferring it on
children. Mason Winslow ambled to the big table for a cigarette, and
Carl pursued him. While they stood talking about "the times are bad,"
Carl was spying upon Ruth, and the minute her current group wandered
off to the davenport he made a dash at the tea-table and got there
before Olive's brother, Philip Dunleavy, who was obviously
manoeuvering like himself. Philip gave him a covert "Who are you,
fellow?" glance, took a cake, and retired.

From his wicker chair facing Ruth's, Carl said, gloomily, "It isn't
done."

"Yes," said Ruth, "I know it, but still some very smart people are
doing it this season."

"But do you think the woman that writes 'What the man will wear' in
the theater programs would stand for it?"

"Not," gravely considered Ruth, "if there were black stitching on the
dress-glove. Yet there is some authority for frilled shirts."

"You think it might be considered then?"

"I will not come between you and your haberdasher, Mr. Ericson."

"This is a foolish conversation. But since you think the better
classes do it--gee! it's getting hard for me to keep up this kind of
'Dolly Dialogue.' What I wanted to do was to request you to give me
concisely but fully a sketch of 'Who is Miss Ruth Winslow?' and save
me from making any pet particular breaks. And hereafter, I warn you,
I'm going to talk like my cousin, the carpet-slipper model."

"Name, Ruth Winslow. Age, between twenty and thirty. Father, Mason
Winslow, manufacturing contractor for concrete. Brothers, Mason
Winslow, Jr., whose poor dear head is getting somewhat bald, as yo