I laughed. Later I took her up to our showrooms on the top floor.
"Good heavens, do you sell people things, Ruth?" she demanded.
"Of course I do," I assured her.
"Just the same as over a counter almost?"
"Yes—not much difference."
"But don't you feel—oh, dear—that seems so queer—what is your social position?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've cut loose from all that."
"I know, but still you've got to think about the future. For instance, how would we feel if Malcolm wrote he was going to marry a clerk—or somebody like that—or a manicurist?"
"If she had education to match his—I should think it was very nice."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't. That's talk. Most people wouldn't anyhow. You are awfully queer, Ruth. You aren't a bit like anybody I know. Don't you sometimes feel hungry for relations with people of your own class? Friendly relations, I mean? Something different from the relations of a clerk to a customer? I would. You are just queer." Then suddenly she exclaimed, "Who's that?"
Virginia had passed through the room.
"Oh, that's Virginia. That's Miss Van de Vere."
"My dear," said Edith, impressed, "she was a guest at Mrs. Sewall's once, when you were out West. She's so striking! I saw her at the station when she arrived—Van de Vere—yes, that was the name. It was
