to my side as
though she thought I needed her motherliness, put her hand on my
shoulder.

"Yes, _mon enfant_, we didn't want you to get discouraged in a strange
place. _Ici nous sommes toute une famille_".

"All one family?" Oh, no, no, kind creature, hospitable receiver of a
stranger, not all one family! I belong to the class of the woman who,
one day by chance out of her carriage, did she happen to sit by your
side in a cable car, would pull her dress from the contact of your
clothes, heavy with tenement odours; draw back as you crushed your huge
form down too close to her; turn no look of sisterhood to your face,
brow-bound by the beads of sweat, its signet of labour.

Not one family! I am one with the hostess, capable even of greeting her
guest with insolent discourtesy did such a one chance to intrude at an
hour when her presence might imperil the next step of the social
climber's ladder.

Not one family, but part of the class whose tongues turn the _truffle_
buried in _pate de foie gras_; whose lips are reddened with Burgundies
and cooled with iced champagnes; who discuss the quality of a _canard a
la presse_ throughout a meal; who have no leisure, because they have no
labour such as you know the term to mean; who create disease by feeding
bodies unstimulated by toil, whilst you, honestly tired, really hungry,
eat Irish stew in the atmosphere of your kitchen dining-hall.

Not one family, I blush to say! God will not have it so.

The Irish stew had all disappeared, every vestige.

"But mademoiselle eats nothing--a bird's appetite." And here was
displayed the first hint of vulgarity we are taught to look for in the
other class.

She put her hands about my arms. "_Tiens! un bras tout de meme!_" and
she looked at Maurice, the young man on my right.

"_Maurice c'est toi qui devrait t'informer des bras d'mademoiselle."_

("Maurice, it is you who should inform yourself of mademoiselle's
arms.")

Maurice laughed with appreciation, as did the others. He was the sole
American at table; out of courtesy for him we talked English from time
to time, although he assured us he understood all we said in "the
jargon."

* * * * *

To Maurice a master pen could do justice; none other. His _type_ is seen
stealing around corners in London's Whitechapel and in the lowest
quarters of New York: a lounger, indolent, usually drunk. Maurice was
the type, with the qualities absent. Tall, lank,