eful," cautioned Martha. "You know how easily my flesh
mars--and I'm going to wear my low neck to-night."

Jane did not heed. "David Hull is a bore--and a fraud," she said. "I
tell you I'd rather marry Victor Dorn."

"Do be careful about my skin, dear," pleaded Martha. "Hugo'll be SO
put out if there's a mark on it. He's very proud of my skin."

Jane looked at her quizzically. "What a dear, fat old rotter of a
respectability it is, to be sure," said she--and strode from the room,
and from the house.

Her mood of perversity and defiance did not yield to a ten mile gallop
over the gentle hills of that lovely part of Indiana, but held on
through the afternoon and controlled her toilet for the ball. She knew
that every girl in town would appear at that most fashionable party of
the summer season in the best clothing she could get together. As she
had several dresses from Paris which she not without reason regarded as
notable works of art, the opportunity to outshine was hers--the sort of
opportunity she took pleasure in using to the uttermost, as a rule.
But to be the best dressed woman at Mrs. Bertram's party was too easy
and too commonplace. To be the worst dressed would call for
courage--of just the sort she prided herself on having. Also, it would
look original, would cause talk--would give her the coveted sense of
achievement.

When she descended to show herself to her father and say good night to
him, she was certainly dressed by the same pattern that caused him to
be talked about throughout that region. Her gown was mussed, had been
mended obviously in several places, had not been in its best day
becoming. But this was not all. Her hair looked stringy and
dishevelled. She was delighted with herself. Except during an illness
two years before never had she come so near to being downright homely.
"Martha will die of shame," said she to herself. "And Mrs. Bertram
will spend the evening explaining me to everybody." She did not
definitely formulate the thought, "And I shall be the most talked about
person of the evening"; but it was in her mind none the less.

Her father always smoked his after-dinner cigar in a little room just
off the library. It was filled up with the plain cheap furniture and
the chromos and mottoes which he and his wife had bought when they
first went to housekeeping--in their early days of poverty and
struggle. On the south wall was a crude and cheap, but startlingly
large en