ent meticulousness
any inclusion of Roxanne with life, as if presuming that Roxanne,
having been dealt a blow, wished life to be carefully skirted.

Roxanne smiled. That kimono! That neck!

After five minutes a little boy toddled into the parlor--a dirty
little boy clad in dirty pink rompers. His face was smudgy--Roxanne
wanted to take him into her lap and wipe his nose; other parts in the
of his head needed attention, his tiny shoes were kicked out at the
toes. Unspeakable!

"What a darling little boy!" exclaimed Roxanne, smiling radiantly.
"Come here to me."

Mrs. Cromwell looked coldly at her son.

"He will get dirty. Look at that face!" She held her head on one side
and regarded it critically.

"Isn't he a _darling?_" repeated Roxanne.

"Look at his rompers," frowned Mrs. Cromwell.

"He needs a change, don't you, George?"

George stared at her curiously. To his mind the word rompers
connotated a garment extraneously smeared, as this one.

"I tried to make him look respectable this morning," complained Mrs.
Cromwell as one whose patience had been sorely tried, "and I found he
didn't have any more rompers--so rather than have him go round without
any I put him back in those--and his face--"

"How many pairs has he?" Roxanne's voice was pleasantly curious, "How
many feather fans have you?" she might have asked.

"Oh,--" Mrs. Cromwell considered, wrinkling her pretty brow. "Five, I
think. Plenty, I know."

"You can get them for fifty cents a pair."

Mrs. Cromwell's eyes showed surprise--and the faintest superiority.
The price of rompers!

"Can you really? I had no idea. He ought to have plenty, but I haven't
had a minute all week to send the laundry out." Then, dismissing the
subject as irrelevant--"I must show you some things--"

They rose and Roxanne followed her past an open bathroom door whose
garment-littered floor showed indeed that the laundry hadn't been sent
out for some time, into another room that was, so to speak, the
quintessence of pinkness. This was Mrs. Cromwell's room.

Here the Hostess opened a closet door and displayed before' Roxanne's
eyes an amazing collection of lingerie.

There were dozens of filmy marvels of lace and silk, all clean,
unruffled, seemingly not yet touched. On hangers beside them were
three new evening dresses.

"I have some beautiful things," said Mrs. Cromwell, "but not much of a
chance to wear them. Harry doesn't care about going out." Spite crept
into