ntage.
Instead of flaring up, Jane said:

"Now, Selma--do be human--do be your sweet, natural self. It isn't my
fault that I am what I am. And you know that I really belong heart and
soul with you."

"Then come with us," said Selma. "If you think the life you lead is
foolish--why, stop leading it."

"You know I can't," said Jane mournfully.

"I know you could," retorted Selma. "Don't be a hypocrite, Jane."

"Selma--how harsh you are!" cried Jane.

"Either come with us or keep away from us," said the girl inflexibly.
"You may deceive yourself--and men--with that talk of broad views and
high aspirations. But you can't deceive another woman."

"I'm not trying to deceive anybody," exclaimed Jane angrily. "Permit me
to say, Selma, that your methods won't make many converts to your
cause."

"Who ever gave you the idea that we were seeking converts in your
class?" inquired Selma. "Our whole object is to abolish your
class--and end its drain upon us--and its bad example--and make its
members useful members of our class, and more contented and happier
than they are now." She laughed--a free and merry laugh, but not
pleasant in Jane's ears. "The idea of US trying to induce young ladies
and young gentlemen with polished finger nails to sit round in
drawing-rooms talking patronizingly of doing something for the masses!
You've got a very queer notion of us, my dear Miss Hastings."

Jane's eyes were flashing. "Selma, there's a devil in you to-day.
What is it?" she demanded.

"There's a great deal of dust from your automobile in me and on me,"
said Selma. "I congratulate you on your good manners in rushing about
spattering and befouling your fellow beings and threatening their
lives."

Jane colored and lowered her head. "I--I never thought of that
before," she said humbly.

Selma's anger suddenly dissolved. "I'm ashamed of myself," she cried.
"Forgive me."

What she had said about the automobile had made an instant deep
impression upon Jane, who was honestly trying to live up to her
aspirations--when she wasn't giving up the effort as hopelessly beyond
her powers and trying to content herself with just aspiring. She was
not hypocritical in her contrition. The dust disfiguring the foliage,
streaking Selma's face and hair, was forcing the lesson in manners
vigorously home. "I'm much obliged to you for teaching me what I ought
to have learned for myself," she said. "I don't blame you for scorning
me. I