, you've got to be imitative, you've got to be able to mimic the
real ones, but that isn't difficult if you're half way bright, don't you
know."

"Lord love you, Lutie, you don't have to imitate any one," said Simmy.
"You're in a class by yourself."

"Thanks, Simmy. Don't let any one else at the table hear you say such
things to me, though. They would think that I'd just come in from the
country. Why shouldn't I get on? How many of the girls that you meet in
your day's walk have graduated from a high-school? How many of the great
ladies who rule New York society possess more than a common school
education, outside of the tricks they've learned after they put on long
frocks? Not many, let me tell you, Simmy. Four-fifths of them can't spell
Connecticut, and they don't know how many e's there are in 'separate.' I
graduated from a high school in Philadelphia, and my mother did the same
thing before me. I also played on the basket-ball team, if that means
anything to you. My parents were poor but respectable, God-fearing people,
as they say in the novels, and they were quite healthy as parents go in
these days, when times are hard and children so cheap that nobody's
without a good sized pack of them. I was born with a brain that was meant
to be used."

"What are you two talking about so secretively?" demanded Mrs. Rumsey
Fenn, across the table from them.

"Ourselves, of course," said Lutie. "Bright people always have something
in reserve, my dear. We save the very best for an extremity. Simmy
delights in talking about me, and I love to talk about him. It's the
simplest kind of small talk and doesn't disturb us in the least if we
should happen to be thinking of something else at the time."

"Have you heard when Braden Thorpe is expected home, Simmy?"

"Had a letter from him yesterday. He sails next week. Is there any
tinkering to be done for your family this season, Madge? Any little old
repairs to be made?"

"I'm afraid not," said Mrs. Fenn desolately, "Rumsey positively refuses to
imagine he's got a pain anywhere, and the baby's tonsils are disgustingly
healthy."

"Old Templeton Thorpe's in a critical condition, I hear," put in Rumsey
Fenn. "There'll be a choice widow in the market before long, I pledge
you."

"Can't they operate?" inquired his wife.

"Not for malignant widows," said Mr. Fenn.

"Oh, don't be silly. I should think old Mr. Thorpe would let Braden
operate. Just think what a fine boost it would gi