g.

Doris, being due at the theatre by seven o'clock, put on her rusty
coat and hat, and, nodding to Athalie, walked out; and the latter
went away to aid Catharine.

"You _do_ look pretty," she insisted after Catharine had powdered her
face and neck and had wiped off her silky skin with the chamois rag.

The girl gazed at her comely, regular features in the mirror, patted
her hair, moistened her red lips, then turned her profile and gazed at
it with the aid of a hand-glass.

"Who else is going?" inquired Athalie.

"Some friends of Genevieve's."

"Men?"

"I believe so."

"Two, I suppose."

Catharine nodded.

"Don't you know their names?"

"No. Genevieve says that one of them is crazy to meet me."

"Where did he see you?"

"At Winton's. I put on some evening gowns for his sister."

Athalie watched her pin on her hat, then held her coat for her.
"They'll all bear watching," she remarked quietly. "If it's merely
society they want you know as well as I that they seek it in their own
circles, not in ours."

Catharine made no audible response. She began to re-pin her hat, then,
pettishly: "I wish I had a taxi to call for me so I needn't wear a
hat!"

"Why not wish for an automobile?" suggested Athalie, laughing. "Women
who have them don't wear hats to the theatre."

"It _is_ tough to be poor!" insisted Catharine fiercely. "It drives me
almost frantic to see what I see in all those limousines,--and then
walk home, or take a car if I'm flush."

"How are you going to help it, dear?" inquired Athalie in that gently
humorous voice which usually subdued and shamed her sisters.

But Catharine only mumbled something rebellious, turned, stared at
herself in the glass, and walked quickly toward the door.

"As for me," she muttered. "I don't blame any girl--"

"What?"

But Catharine marched out with a twitch of her narrow skirts, still
muttering incoherencies.

Athalie, thoughtful, but not really disturbed, went into the empty
sitting-room, picked up the evening paper, glanced absently at the
head-lines, dropped it, and stood motionless in the centre of the
room, one narrow hand bracketed on her hip, the other pinching her
under lip.

For a few minutes she mused, then sighing, she walked into the
kitchenette, unhooked a blue-checked apron, rolled up her sleeves as
far as her white, rounded arms permitted, and started in on the
dishes.

Occasionally she whistled at her task--the clear, soft, melodious