ime the Rose of Sharon had taken
the attitude of having washed her hands of responsibility for a course
which must inevitably lead to ruin. She discussed some of Victoria's
acquaintances with Mrs. Pomfret and other intimates; and Mrs. Pomfret had
lost no time in telling Mrs. Flint about her daughter's sleigh-ride at
the State capital with a young man from Ripton who seemed to be seeing
entirely too much of Victoria. Mrs. Pomfret had marked certain danger
signs, and as a conscientious woman was obliged to speak of them. Mrs.
Pomfret did not wish to see Victoria make a mesalliance.

"My dear Fanny," Mrs. Flint had cried, lifting herself from the lace
pillows, "what do you expect me to do especially when I have nervous
prostration? I've tried to do my duty by Victoria--goodness knows--to
bring her up--among the sons and daughters of the people who are my
friends. They tell me that she has temperament--whatever that may be. I'm
sure I never found out, except that the best thing to do with people who
have it is to let them alone and pray for them. When we go abroad I like
the Ritz and Claridge's and that new hotel in Rome. I see my friends
there. Victoria, if you please, likes the little hotels in the narrow
streets where you see nobody, and where you are most uncomfortable."
(Miss Oliver, it's time for those seven drops.) "As I was saying,
Victoria's enigmatical hopeless, although a French comtesse who wouldn't
look at anybody at the baths this spring became wild about her, and a
certain type of elderly English peer always wants to marry her. (I
suppose I do look pale to-day.) Victoria loves art, and really knows
something about it. She adores to potter around those queer places abroad
where you see strange English and Germans and Americans with red books in
their hands. What am I to do about this young man of whom you
speak--whatever his name is? I suppose Victoria will marry him--it would
be just like her. But what can I do, Fanny? I can't manage her, and it's
no use going to her father. He would only laugh. Augustus actually told
me once there was no such thing as social position in this country!"

"American men of affairs," Mrs. Pomfret judicially replied, "are too busy
to consider position. They make it, my dear, as a by-product." Mrs.
Pomfret smiled, and mentally noted this aptly technical witticism for use
again.

"I suppose they do," assented the Rose of Sharon, "and their daughters
sometimes squander it, just as