Mrs. Durland was greatly distressed that a daughter of hers should have
met Miss Beulah Reynolds in what she was pleased to term a servile
capacity. Miss Reynolds was a personage, she said--a Colonial Dame,
a D. A. R. and everything else that implied noble American ancestry.
Mrs. Durland had met her at a tea, which she described with minute
detail. It was in Harrison’s administration, she thought, though it
might have been in the second consulship of Cleveland. That a lady so
distinguished and wealthy should have given Grace ten dollars quite as
though she were a waitress was humiliating. Miss Reynolds would never
have thought of tipping the daughter of Alicia Morley Durland.
“I’m number Eighteen to all the world when I’m at Shipley’s,” Grace
replied good-naturedly. “If I’d told her in a burst of confidence that
I was your daughter she probably wouldn’t have given me the ten which I
sorely need. She was nice as possible and I didn’t see anything wrong
in taking her money.”
“Well, of course she meant to be kind, dear; but it hurts me just a
little.”
Thanks to Mrs. Reynolds’ generous purchases, Grace’s envelope for the
first week contained $35.21. Though warned by Irene that this was
beginner’s luck she was satisfied that she could master the selling art
and earn a good income.
“You’ve got the gift, my dear. You’ll build up a line of regular
customers,” Irene expatiated, “who’ll always ask for you, and that’s
what counts. I notice that a good many customers already pick you out
and refuse to be steered to the other girls at your end of the room.
All due to your _beaux yeux_, as we say in Paris, and general air of
being somebody in particular.”
Grace quickly made friends in the store, both in and out of her own
department. Two members of her sorority, who like herself had been
obliged to leave college before finishing, sought her out; an alumna
of the state university, a woman of thirty, who was employed in
the office as auditor, took her to lunch; a charming English woman,
stranded in America and plying her needle in the alteration room,
brought her books to read. Miss Vail at the glove counter knew all
there was to know about palmistry, table-tipping and automatic writing
and aroused Grace’s curiosity as to the mysteries of the ouija board.
To break the monotony of her evenings, Grace asked Miss Vail and two
other girls from the store to the house for some experiments. She had
not announced in advance that the purpose of the meeting was to probe
into the unknown, and had counted on Ethel’s assistance in entertaining
her friends; but when the ouija board was produced Ethel expressed a
chilling disapproval of ouija and everything else pertaining to the
occult. Mrs. Durland, anxious to promote harmony, suggested that they
read aloud an article in a late magazine that explained ouija writing
and similar phenomena. Of course Grace and her friends did not want
scientific explanations of ouija; they wanted to see the thing work.
“Much unhappiness may be caused by such things,” said Mrs. Durland;
“and of course they mean nothing.”
“I’ve always felt,” remarked Ethel, “that there’s something just a
little vulgar about it.”
“Oh, piffle!” exclaimed Grace impatiently. “We all know it’s a joke; we
just wanted to have a little fun out of it.”
“Don’t bother, Grace,” said Miss Vail. “We’ll just forget about it.”
Stephen Durland, who had changed his clothes in honor of Grace’s party,
broke his silence to say:
“I don’t see any harm in those things. They’re all explained on
scientific grounds. I think it would be interesting to watch it work.”
“It probably wouldn’t work in such an atmosphere,” said Grace,
thoroughly irritated.
“Suppose,” said Mrs. Durland with sudden inspiration, “you girls make
fudge! I’ll get the things ready. I never saw a girl yet who didn’t
like fudge.”
Something had to be done to amuse the guests and Grace assented. Ethel,
however, did not participate in the fudge making, but took herself off
to bed. Grace resolved never again to ask any one to the house. She
said as much to Ethel the next morning.
“You seem to forget that I pay my board here and help with the
housework, too. I ought to have a few privileges. Those are as nice
girls as I ever knew and you and mother drove us into the kitchen as
though we were a lot of silly children. You’re certainly the queen of
the kill-joys.”
“I should think,” said Ethel, regarding her sister pityingly, “that
with your education you’d be above putting yourself on the level with
the cheap people who patronize fortune-tellers. People who really have
faith that there’s a life to come don’t _need_ such things. They have
no place in a Christian home.”
Grace stared at her helplessly. Ethel was an enigma; it was incredible
that any one could feel so intensely about so small a matter, or find
so complete a joy in making others uncomfortable.