In spite of all there was to see that afternoon, Dolly Franklin had
chosen to remain at home; she sat alone in the drawing-room, adding
silken rows to her stocking of the moment. Wherever Ruth was, that was
now Dolly's home; since Mrs. Franklin's death, two years before, Dolly
had lived with her sister. The mother had survived her son but a month.
Her soul seemed to have departed with the first stroke of the benumbing
malady; there was nothing but the breathing left. At the end of a few
weeks, even the breathing ceased. Since then, L'Hommedieu had been
closed, save for a short time each spring. Horace Chase had bought a
cottage at Newport, and his wife and Dolly had divided their time
between Newport and New York. This winter, however, Chase had reopened
his Florida house, the old Worth place, at St. Augustine; for Ruth's
health appeared to be growing delicate; at least she had a dread of the
cold, of the icy winds, and the snow.
"Well, we'll go back to the land of the alligators," said Chase; "we'll
live on sweet potatoes and the little oysters that grow round loose. You
seem to have forgotten that you own a shanty down there, Ruthie?"
At first Ruth opposed this idea. Then suddenly she changed her mind.
"No, I'll go. I want to sail, and sail!"
"So do I," said Dolly. "But why shouldn't we try new waters? The Bay of
Naples, for instance? Mr. Chase, if you cannot go over at present, you
could come for us, you know, whenever it was convenient?" Dolly expended
upon her idea all the eloquence she possessed.
But Horace Chase never liked to have his wife beyond the reach of a
railroad. He himself often made long, rapid journeys without her. But he
was unwilling to have her "on the other side of the ferry," as he called
it, unless he could accompany her; and at present there were important
business interests which held him at home. As Ruth also paid small heed
to Dolly's brilliant (and wholly imaginary) pictures of Capri, Ischia,
and Sorrento, the elder sister had been forced (though with deep inward
reluctance) to yield; since December, therefore, they had all been
occupying the pleasant old mansion that faced the sea-wall.
To-day, four o'clock came, and passed. Five o'clock came, and passed;
and Dolly still sat there alone. At last she put down her knitting, and,
taking her cane, limped upstairs and peeped into her sister's
dressing-room. Ruth, who was lying on the lounge with her face hidden,
appeared to be asleep. Dolly, therefore, closed the door noiselessly and
limped down again. Outside the weather was ideally lovely. The
beautiful floral arch which had been erected in the morning still filled
the air with its fragrance, though the tea-roses of which it was
composed were now beginning to droop. St. Augustine, or rather the
visitors from the North, who at this season filled the little Spanish
town, had set up this blossoming greeting in honor of a traveller who
was expected by the afternoon train. This traveller had now arrived; he
had passed through the floral gateway in the landau which was bringing
him from the station. The arch bore as its legend: "The Ancient City
welcomes the great Soldier." The quiet-looking man in the landau was
named Grant.
At length Dolly had a visitor; Mrs. Kip was shown in. A moment later the
Reverend Malachi Hill appeared, his face looking flushed, as though he
had been in great haste. Mrs. Kip's eyes had a conscious expression when
she saw him. She tried to cover it by saying, enthusiastically, "How
_well_ you do look, Mr. Hill! You look so fresh; really _classic_."
The outline of the clergyman's features was not the one usually
associated with this adjective. But Mrs. Kip was not a purist; it was
classic enough, in her opinion, to have bright blue eyes and golden
hair; the accidental line of the nose and mouth was less important.
"Yes, my recovery is now complete," Malachi answered; "I must go back to
my work in a day or two. But I wish it hadn't been measles, you know.
Such a ridiculous malady!"
"Oh, don't say that; measles are so sweet, so domestic. They make one
think of dear little children; and lemons," said Mrs. Kip,
imaginatively. "And then, when they are getting well, all sorts of
toys!"
While she was speaking, Anthony Etheridge entered. And he, too, looked
as if he had been making haste. "What, Dolly, neither you nor Ruth out
on this great occasion? Are you a bit of a copperhead?"
"No," Dolly answered. "I haven't spirit enough. _My_ only spirit is in a
lamp; I have been making flaxseed tea and hot lemonade for Ruth, who has
a cold."
"Does she swallow your messes?" Etheridge asked.
"Never. But I like to fuss over them, and measure them out, and _stir_
them up!"
"Just as I do for Evangeline Taylor," remarked Mrs. Kip, affectionately.
"Lilian, isn't Evangeline long enough without that Taylor?" Dolly
suggested. "I have always meant to ask you."
"I do it as a remembrance of her father," replied Lilian, with solemnity
"For I myself am a Taylor no longer; _I_ am a Kip."
"Oh, is that it? And if you should marry again, what then could you do
(as there is no second Evangeline) for your present name?" Dolly
inquired, gravely.
"I have thought of that," answered the widow. "And I have decided that
I shall keep it. It shall precede any new name I may take; I should make
it a condition."
"You are warned, gentlemen," commented Dolly.
Etheridge for an instant looked alarmed. Then, as he saw that Malachi
had reddened violently, he grew savage. "Kip-Hill? Kip-Larue?
Kip-Willoughby?" he repeated, as if trying them. "Walter Willoughby,
however, is very poor dependence for you, Mrs. Lilian; for he is
evidently here in the train of the Barclays. He arrived with them
yesterday, and he tells me he is going up the Ocklawaha; I happen to
know that the Barclays are taking that trip, also."
Walter Willoughby's name had rendered Mrs. Kip visibly conscious a
second time. The commodore's allusion to "the Barclays," and to Walter's
being "in their train," had made no impression upon her. They were
presumably ladies; but Lilian's mind was never troubled by the
attractions of other women, she was never jealous. One reason for this
immunity lay in the fact that she was always so actively engaged in the
occupation of loving that she had no time for jealousy; another was that
she had in her heart a soft conviction, modest but fixed, regarding the
power of her own charms. As excuse for her, it may be mentioned that the
conviction was not due to imagination, it was a certainty forced upon
her by actual fact; from her earliest girlhood men had been constantly
falling in love with her, and apparently they were going to continue it
indefinitely. But though not jealous herself, she sympathized deeply
with the pain which this tormenting feeling gave to others, and, on the
present occasion, she feared that Malachi might be suffering from the
mention of Walter Willoughby's name, and that of Achilles Larue, in
connection with her own; she therefore began to talk quickly, as a
diversion to another subject. "Oh, do you know, as I came here this
afternoon I was reminded of something I have often meant to ask you--ask
all of you, and I'll say it now, as it's in my mind. Don't you know that
sign one so often sees everywhere--'Job Printing'? There is one in
Charlotte Street, and it was seeing it there just now as I passed that
made me think of it again. I suppose it must be some especial kind of
printing that they have named after Job? But it has always seemed to me
so odd, because there was, of course, no printing at all, until some
time after Job was dead? Or do you suppose it means that printers have
to be so _very_ patient (with the bad handwriting that comes to them),
that they name _themselves_ after Job?"
Dolly put down her knitting. "Lilian, come here and let me kiss you. You
are too enchanting!"
Mrs. Kip kissed Dolly with amiability. She already knew--she could not
help knowing--that she was too enchanting. But it was not often a
woman's voice that mentioned the fact. "It is late, I must go," she
said. "Mr. Hill, if you--if you want those roses for Mrs. Chase's
bouquet, this is the best time to gather them."
Malachi Hill found his hat with alacrity, and they went out together.
And then Etheridge took refuge in general objurgations. "I'm dead sick
of Florida, Dolly! It's so monotonous. So flat, and deep in sand. No
driving is possible. One of the best drives I ever had in my life was in
a sleigh; right up the Green Mountains. The snow was over the tops of
the fences, and the air clear as a bell!"
"Do the Green Mountains interest the little turtle-dove who has just
gone out?" Dolly inquired.
"Little turtle-fool! She makes eyes at every young idiot who comes
along."
"Oh no, she only coos. It's her natural language. I won't answer as to
Achilles Larue, commodore, for that is a long-standing passion; she
began to admire his fur-lined overcoat, his neat shoes, his 'ish,' and
his mystic coldness within a month after the departure of her second
dear one. But as to her other flames, I think you could cut them out in
her affections if you would give your mind to it seriously; yes, even
the contemporary Willoughby. But you'll never give your mind to it,
you're a dog in the manger! You have no intention of marrying her
yourself. Yet you don't want any one else to marry her. Isn't it
tremendously appropriate that she happens to own an orange-grove?
Orange-blossoms always ready."
"Contemporary?" Etheridge repeated, going back to the word that had
startled him.
"Yes. Haven't you noticed how vividly contemporary young fellows of
Walter's type are? They have no fixed habits; for fixed habits are
founded in retrospect, and they never indulge in retrospect. Anything
that happened last week seems to them old; last year, antediluvian. They
live in the moment, with an outlook only towards the future. This makes
them very 'actual' wooers. As my brother-in-law would phrase it, they
are 'all there!'"
"Nonsense!" said Etheridge. But as he went home to his own quarters (to
take a nap so as to be fresh for the evening), he turned over in his
thoughts that word "contemporary!" And he made up his mind that from
that hour he would mention no event which had occurred more than one
year before; he would tell no story which dated back beyond the same
period of time; he would read only the younger authors (whom he loathed
without exception); he would not permit himself to prefer any particular
walking-stick, any especial chair. At the club he would play euchre
instead of whist; and if there was any other even more confoundedly
modern and vulgar game, he would play that. Habits, indeed? Stuff and
nonsense!
Left alone, Dolly went upstairs a second time. But Ruth's door was now
locked. The elder sister came back therefore to the drawing-room. Her
face was anxious.
She banished the expression, however, when she heard her
brother-in-law's step in the hall; a moment later Horace Chase entered,
his hands full of letters, and newspapers piled on his arm; he had come
from the post-office, where the afternoon mail had just been
distributed. "Where is Ruth? Still asleep?" he asked.
"I think not; I heard Felicite's voice speaking to her just now, when I
was upstairs," Dolly answered.
"They're taking another look at that new frock," Chase suggested,
jocosely, as he seated himself to reread his correspondence (for he had
already glanced through each letter in the street). "Where is Hill?" he
went on rather vaguely, his attention already attracted by something in
the first of these communications.
"He came in, after the welcoming ceremonies, red in the face from
chasing Mrs. Kip. And the commodore appeared a moment later, also
breathless, and in search of her. But Malachi was selected to walk home
with the fair creature. And then the commodore trampled on Florida, and
talked of the Green Mountains."
Dolly's tone was good-natured. But beneath this good-nature Chase
fancied that there was jealousy. "Eh--what's that you say?" he
responded, bringing out his words slowly, while he bestowed one more
thought upon the page he was reading before he gave her his full
attention. "The little Kip? Well, Dolly, she is a very sweet little
woman, isn't she?" he went on, reasonably, as if trying to open her eyes
gently to a fact that was undeniable. "But I didn't know that Hill had
a fancy in that quarter. If he has, we must lend him a hand."
For Chase had a decided liking for Malachi; the way the young clergyman
had carried through that rapid journey to New York and back, after Jared
Franklin's death, had won his regard and admiration. Malachi had not
stopped at Salisbury; his train went no farther, but he had succeeded in
getting a locomotive, by means of which, travelling on all night, he had
made a connection and reached New York in time after all to meet Ruth's
steamer. As it came in, there he was on the dock, dishevelled and
hungry, but there.
And then when Ruth, frenzied by the tidings he brought (for it really
seemed to him almost frenzy), had insisted upon starting on her journey
to L'Hommedieu without an instant's delay, he had taken her, with
Felicite, southward again as rapidly as the trains could carry them. His
money was exhausted, but he did not stop; he travelled on credit,
pledging his watch; it was because he had no money that he had not
telegraphed. At Old Fort he procured a horse and light wagon, also on
trust, and though he had already spent four nights without sleep, he did
not stop, but drove Ruth across the mountains in the darkness on a sharp
trot, with the utmost skill and daring, leaving Felicite to follow by
stage. The sum which Chase had placed in the envelope with the ticket
had been intended merely for his own expenses; the additional amount
which was now required for Ruth and her maid soon exhausted it,
together with all that he had with him of his own. Ruth's state of
tension--for she was dumb, white, and strange--had filled him with the
deepest apprehension; she did not think of money, and he could not bear
to speak to her of it. Such a contingency had not occurred to Chase, who
knew that his wife had with her more money than the cost of half a dozen
such journeys; for her purse was always not only full, but over-full; it
was one of his pleasures to keep it so. When, afterwards, he learned the
facts (from Ruth herself, upon questioning her), he went off, found
Malachi, and gave him what he called "a good big grip" of the hand.
"You're a trump, Hill, and can be banked on every time!" Since then he
had been Malachi's friend and advocate on all occasions, even to the
present one of endeavoring to moderate the supposed jealousy of his
sister-in-law regarding Lilian Kip.
After this kindly meant attempt of his, Dolly did not again interrupt
him; she left him to finish his letters, while she went on with her
knitting in silence.
Mrs. Franklin's prophecy, that Chase would end by liking Dolly for
herself, had not as yet come true. Ruth's husband accepted the presence
of his wife's sister under his roof; as she was an invalid, he would not
have been contented to have her elsewhere. Dolly's life now moved on
amid ease and comfort; she had her own attendant, who was partly a
lady's-maid, partly a nurse; she had her own phaeton, and, when in New
York, her own coupe. If she was to live with Ruth at all, there was,
indeed, no other way; she could not do her own sister the injustice of
remaining a contrast, a jarring note by her side. Chase was invariably
kind to Dolly. Nevertheless Dolly knew that her especial combination of
ill-health and sarcasm seemed to him incongruous; she could detect in
his mind the thought that it was odd that a woman so sickly, with the
added misfortune of a plain face, should not at least try to be amiable,
since it was the only role she could properly fill. Her little
hostilities, as her mother had called them, were now necessarily
quiescent. But she had the conviction that, even if they had remained
active, her tall brother-in-law would not have minded them; he would
have taken, probably, a jocular view of them; and of herself as well.
When the last letter was finished, and she saw her companion begin on
his newspapers, she spoke again: "I don't think Ruth ought to go to that
reception to-night; she is not well enough."
"Why, I thought it was nothing but a very slight cold," Chase said,
turning round, surprised. "She mustn't think of going if she's sick. She
_wants_ to go; she telegraphed for that dress."
"Yes; last week. But that was before--before she felt ill. If she goes
now, it will be only because _you_ care for it."
"Oh, shucks! _I_ care for it! What do I care for that sort of thing?
I'll go and tell her to give the whole right up." He rose, leaving his
newspapers on the floor (Chase always wanted his newspapers on the
floor, and not on a table), and went towards the door. But, at the same
instant, Ruth herself came in. "I was just going up to tell you, Ruthie,
that I guess we won't turn out to-night after all--I mean to that show
at the Barracks. I reckon they can manage without us?"
"Oh, but I want to see it," said Ruth. "If you are tired, I can go with
Mrs. Kip."
"Well, who's running this family, anyway?" Chase demanded, going back to
his seat, not ill-pleased, however, that Dolly should see that her
information concerning her sister was less accurate than his own. But
his care regarding everything that was connected with his wife made him
add, "You'll give it up if I want you to, Ruthie?"
"You don't. It's Dolly!" Ruth declared. "Dolly-Dulcinea, I have changed
my mind. I did not want to go this morning; I did not want to go this
noon. But, at half-past five o'clock precisely, I knew that I must go or
perish! Nothing shall keep me away." And, gayly waving her hand to her
sister, she went into the music-room, which opened from the larger
apartment, and, seating herself at the piano, began to play.
Chase returned to his reading; his only comment to Dolly was, "She seems
to _look_ pretty well." And it was true that Ruth looked not only well,
but brilliant. After a while they heard her begin to sing:
"My short and happy day is done;
The long and dreary night comes on;
And at my door the Pale Horse stands,
To carry me to unknown lands.
"His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,
Sound dreadful as a gathering storm;
And I must leave this sheltering roof,
And joys of life so soft and warm."
"_Don't_ sing that!" called Dolly, sharply.
"Why not let her do as she likes?" suggested Chase, in the conciliatory
tone he often adopted with Dolly. To him all songs were the same; he
could not tell one from the other.
At this moment Malachi Hill entered, with his arms full of roses. "Long
stalks?" said Ruth, hurrying to meet him. "Lovely! Now you shall help me
make my posy. What shall I bring home for you in my pocket, Mr. Hill?
Ice-cream?"
"Well, the truth is I am thinking of going myself," answered Malachi,
coloring a little. "It has been mentioned to me that I ought to go--as a
representative of the clergy. It is not in the least a ball, they tell
me; it is a reception--a reception to General Grant. The young people
may perhaps dance a little; but not until after the general's
departure."
"Capital idea," said Chase, adding a fourth to his pile of perused
sheets on the floor. "And don't go back on us, Hill, by proposing to
escort some one else. Ruth wants to make an impression on the general,
and, three abreast, perhaps we can do it."
Suddenly Ruth went to her sister. "Dolly, you must go too. Now don't say
a word. You can go early and have a good seat; and as to dress, you can
wear your opera-cloak."
"Oh no--" began Dolly.
But Ruth stopped her. "You must. I want you to _see_ me there."
"Well, who's conceited, I'd like to know?" commented Chase, as he read
on.
But Ruth's face wore no expression of conceit; its expression was that
of determination. With infinite relief Dolly saw this. "I'll go," she
said, comprehending Ruth's wish.
The reception was given by a West Point comrade of General Grant's, who
happened to be spending the winter in Florida. As he had left the army
many years before, he was now a civilian, and the participation of St.
Francis Barracks in the affair was therefore accidental, not official.
For the civilian, being a man of wealth, had erected for the occasion a
temporary hall or ball-room, and had connected it by a covered passage
with the apartments of his brother, who was an artillery officer,
stationed that winter at this old Spanish post. At ten o'clock, this
improvised hall presented a gay appearance, owing to the flowers with
which it was profusely decorated, to the full dress of the ladies, and
to the uniforms; for the army had been reinforced by a contingent from
the navy, as two vessels belonging to the Coast Survey were in port.
The reticent personage to whom all this homage was offered looked as if
he would like to get rid of it on any terms. He had commanded great
armies, he had won great battles, and that seemed to him easy enough.
But to stand and have his hand shaken--this was an ordeal!
A lane had been kept open through the centre of the long room in order
to facilitate the presentations. At half-past ten, coming in his turn up
this avenue, the tall figure of Horace Chase could be seen; his wife was
with him, and they were preceded by the Rev. Malachi Hill. Chase,
inwardly amused by the ceremony, advanced towards Grant with his face
very solemn. But for the moment no one looked at him; all eyes were
turned towards the figure by his side.
Half an hour earlier, as he sat alone in his drawing-room, waiting (and
reading another newspaper to pass away the time), Ruth had come to him.
As he heard her enter, he had looked up with a smile. Then his face
altered a little.
"What! no diamonds?" he said.
Ruth wore the new dress about which he had joked, but no ornaments save
a string of pearls.
"It shall be just as you like," she answered, in a steady voice.
"Oh no, Ruthie; just as _you_ like."
He admired diamonds, and now that she was nearly twenty-three, he had
said to himself that even her mother, if she had lived, would no longer
have objected to her wearing them. He had therefore bought for her
recently a superb necklace, bracelets, and other ornaments, and he had
pleased himself with the thought that for this official occasion they
would be entirely appropriate. Ruth, reading his disappointment in his
eyes, went out, and returned a few minutes later adorned with all his
gifts to the very last stone. And now, as she came up the lane in the
centre of the crowded room, the gems gleamed and flashed, gleamed on her
neck, on her arms, in her hair, and in the filmy lace of her dress.
Always tall, she had grown more womanly, and she could therefore bear
the splendor. To-night, in addition, her own face was striking, for her
color had returned, and her extraordinarily beautiful eyes were at their
best--lustrous and profound. It had always been said of Ruth that her
beauty came and went. To-night it had certainly come, and to such a
degree that it spurred Etheridge to the exclamation, in an undertone:
"Too many diamonds. But, by George, she shines them down!"
After the presentation was over Chase stepped aside, and, with his wife,
joined Dolly. Dolly had a very good place; draped in her opera-cloak,
which was made of a rich Oriental fabric, she looked odd, ugly, and
distinguished.
"Everybody is here except the Barclays," Etheridge announced. "There
can't be a soul left in any of the hotels. And all the negroes in town
are on the sea-wall outside, ready to hurrah when the great man drives
away."
"Here's Walter. He is coming this way--he is looking for _us_," said
Chase. "How are you, Walter?"
"Mrs. Chase! Delighted to meet you again," said Willoughby, shaking
hands with Ruth with the utmost cordiality.
"My sister is here also," Ruth answered, moving aside so that he could
see Dolly. And then Walter greeted Miss Franklin with the same extreme
heartiness.
"Bless my soul, what enthusiasm!" commented Etheridge. "One would
suppose that you had not met for years."
"And we haven't," said Ruth, surveying Walter, coolly. "Mr. Willoughby
has changed. He has a sort of Chinese air."
"Willoughby has been living in California for two years, commodore;
didn't you know that?" Chase explained, inwardly enjoying his wife's
sally. "_I've_ been to California four times since then. But as he
hasn't been east, the ladies have lost sight of him."
"Are you returning to the Pacific?" Etheridge inquired of the younger
man, "so as to look more Chinese still?"
"The Celestial air I have already caught will have to do," Walter
answered, laughing. "California is a wonderfully fascinating country.
But I am not going back; the business which took me there is concluded."
Horace Chase smiled, detecting the triumph under these words. For his
Pacific-coast enterprise had been highly successful, and Walter had
carried out his part of it with great energy and intelligence, and had
profited accordingly. That particular partnership was now dissolved.
When the dancing began, Ruth declined her invitations. "It isn't
necessary to stay any longer, is it?" Dolly suggested in a low tone.
"The carriage is probably waiting."
Here Chase, who had left them twenty minutes before, came up. "I've been
seeing the general off," he said. "Well--he appeared middling glad to
go! No dancing, Ruthie?" For he always remembered the things that amused
his wife, and dancing, he knew, was high on her list.
And then, with that overtouch which it is so often the fate of an elder
sister to bestow, Dolly said, "I really think she had better not try it.
She is not thoroughly strong yet--after her cold."
This second assertion of a knowledge superior to his own annoyed Chase.
And Ruth perceived it. "I am perfectly well," she answered. And,
accepting the next invitation, she began to dance. She danced with
everybody. Walter Willoughby had his turn with the rest.
A week later, Chase, coming home at sunset, looked into the
drawing-room. His wife was not there, and he went upstairs in search of
her. He found her in her dressing-room, with a work-basket by her side.
"Well! I've never seen you _sew_ before," he declared, amused by this
new industry.
"I've had letters that make it necessary for me to go north, Ruthie.
You'll be all right here, with Dolly, won't you?" He had seated himself,
and was now glancing over a letter.
"Don't go," said Ruth, abruptly. And she went on sewing with her
unnecessarily strong stitches; her mother had been wont to say of her
that, if she sewed at all, the results were like iron.
Petie Trone, Esq., aged but still pretty, had been reposing on the
lounge by her side. But the moment Chase seated himself, the little
patriarch had jumped down, gone over, and climbed confidently up to his
knees, where, after turning round three times, he had finally settled
himself curled up like a black ball, with his nose on his tail.
"Oh, I must," Chase answered. "There's something I've got to attend to."
And he continued to study the letter.
"Take me with you, then," said Ruth, going on with her rocklike seam.
"What's that? Take you?" her husband responded, still absorbed. "Not
this time, I guess. For I'm going straight through to Chicago. It would
tire you."
"No; I should like it; I don't want to stay here." She put down her
work; going to one of the tables, she stood there with her back towards
him, turning things over, but hardly as though she perceived what they
were. Chase finished his letter. Then, as he replaced it in his pocket,
he saw that she had risen, and, depositing Mr. Trone on the lounge, he
went to her and put his arm round her shoulders.
"I'd take you if I could, Ruthie," he said, indulgently, beginning a
reasonable argument with her. "But my getting to Chicago by a certain
date is imperative, and to do it I've got to catch to-night's train and
go through, and that would be too hard travelling for you. Besides, you
would lose all the benefit of your Southern winter if you should hurry
north now, while it is still so cold; that is always a mistake--to go
north too early. Your winter here has done you lots of good, and that's
a great pleasure to me. I want to be proud of you next summer at
Newport, you know." And he pinched her cheek.
Ruth turned and looked at him. "_Are_ you proud of me?"
"Oh no!" answered Chase, laughing. "Not at all!" Then, after a moment,
he went on, his tone altering. "I like to work a big deal through; I'm
more or less proud of that, I reckon. But down below everything else,
Ruthie, I guess my biggest pride is just--_you_." He was a man without
any grace in speech. But certain tones of his voice had an eloquence of
their own.
Ruth straightened herself. "I will do what you wish. I will stay
here--as you prefer it. And you must keep on being proud of me. You must
be proud of me always, _always_."
This made her husband laugh a second time. "It's a conceit that's come
to stay, Mrs. Chase. You may put your money on it!"