eople! I don't think you know who you're talking about, Mrs.
Mumford. You'll let me tell you that my friends are as respectable
as yours--'

'I shall not argue about it,' said Emmeline, standing up. 'You will
please to remember that already I've had a great deal of trouble and
annoyance, and what you propose would be quite intolerable. Once for
all, I can't dream of such a thing.'

'Then all I can say is, Mrs. Mumford'--the speaker rose with heavy
dignity--'that you're not behaving in a very ladylike way. I'm not a
quarrelsome person, as you well know, and I don't say nasty things
if I can help it. But there's one thing I _must_ say and _will_ say,
and that is, that when we first came here you gave a very different
account of yourself to what it's turned out. You told me and my
daughter distinctly that you had a great deal of the very best
society, and that was what Lou came here _for_, and you knew it, and
you can't deny that you did. And I should like to know how much
society she's seen all the time she's been here--that's the question
I _ask_ you. I don't believe she's seen more than three or four
people altogether. They may have been respectable enough, and I'm
not the one to say they weren't, but I _do_ say it isn't what we was
led to expect, and that you can't deny, Mrs. Mumford.'

She paused for breath. Emmeline had moved towards the door, and
stood struggling with the feminine rage which impelled her to
undignified altercation. To withdraw in silence would be like a
shamed confession of the charge brought against her, and she
suffered not a little from her consciousness of the modicum of truth
therein.

'It was a most unfortunate thing, Mrs. Higgins,' burst from her
lips, 'that I ever consented to receive your daughter, knowing as I
did that she wasn't our social equal.'

'Wasn't _what_?' exclaimed the other, as though the suggestion
startled her by its novelty. 'You think yourself superior to us? You
did us a favour--'

Whilst Mrs. Higgins was uttering these words the door opened, and
there entered a figure which startled her into silence. It was that
of Louise, in a dressing-gown and slippers, with a shawl wrapped
about the upper part of her body.

'I heard you quarrelling,' she began. (Her bedroom was immediately
above, and at this silent hour the voices of the angry ladies had
been quite audible to her as she lay in bed.) 'What _is_ it all
about? It's too bad of you, mother--'

'The idea, Louise,