"Yes, and two other things of that kind--I don't know what. But, after
all, I wondered if they were so bad. If I'd been at a dinner at a palace
in Italy, and a relief or inscription on one of the old silver pieces
had referred to some great deed or achievement of the family, I
shouldn't have felt superior; I'd have thought it picturesque and
stately--I'd have been impressed. And what's the real difference? The
icing is temporary, and that's much more modest, isn't it? And why is
it vulgar to feel important more on account of something you've done
yourself than because of something one of your ancestors did? Besides,
if we go back a few generations, we've all got such hundreds of
ancestors it seems idiotic to go picking out one or two to be proud of
ourselves about. Well, then, mamma, I managed not to feel superior to
Mr. James Sheridan, Junior, because he didn't see anything out of place
in the Sheridan Building in sugar."

Mrs. Vertrees's expression had lost none of its anxiety pending the
conclusion of this lively bit of analysis, and she shook her head
gravely. "My dear, dear child," she said, "it seems to me--It looks--I'm
afraid--"

"Say as much of it as you can, mamma," said Mary, encouragingly. "I can
get it, if you'll just give me one key-word."

"Everything you say," Mrs. Vertrees began, timidly, "seems to have the
air of--it is as if you were seeking to--to make yourself--"

"Oh, I see! You mean I sound as if I were trying to force myself to like
him."

"Not exactly, Mary. That wasn't quite what I meant," said Mrs. Vertrees,
speaking direct untruth with perfect unconsciousness. "But you said
that--that you found the latter part of the evening at young Mrs.
Sheridan's unentertaining--"

"And as Mr. James Sheridan was there, and I saw more of him than at
dinner, and had a horribly stupid time in spite of that, you think I--"
And then it was Mary who left the deduction unfinished.

Mrs. Vertrees nodded; and though both the mother and the daughter
understood, Mary felt it better to make the understanding definite.

"Well," she asked, gravely, "is there anything else I can do? You and
papa don't want me to do anything that distresses me, and so, as this is
the only thing to be done, it seems it's up to me not to let it distress
me. That's all there is about it, isn't it?"

"But nothing MUST distress you!" the mother cried.

"That's what I say!" said Mary, cheerfully. "And so it doesn't. It's all
righ