like her father's praise of her. Mrs. Hulburt was good-natured, good-looking, tactful. But, as Sally said of her:
"Mother is as comfortable as a feather-pillow, because she always agrees with everybody."
"But how can she agree with everybody," Hildegarde had demanded, "and be sincere?"
"The girls of mother's generation were not trained to be sincere," Sally explained. "They were trained to be attractive, and you can't be attractive to men if you have too many opinions."
Hildegarde thought of her own mother. Her mother's sincerity had been the stable and splendid thing about her. Yet it had never been irritating. In argument she had always been fair, laughing often at her own inconsistencies, agreeing with her opponent when she could, but waving the truth as she saw it like an oriflamme in the faces of her enemies.
Yet here was Mrs. Hulburt, soothing in pale lavender, her fair hair banded with silver, capturing Carew's fancy with her sophistries, her insincerities.
The evening was spoiled for Hildegarde. And when the returns began to show that defeat for her father's candidate was imminent, she had a feeling that she might be held personally responsible.
When the thing was certain, however, Carew rose sportingly to the occasion. "We who are about to die, salute you," he said to his daughter. Then, to Mrs. Hulburt: "Ethel, let's relieve our drooping spirits by going over to the Country Club. There's a dance—"
Hildegarde was in no mood for the Country Club.
