But more frequently she nursed her resentment against Mrs. Williams, to whom she ascribed the blame of her isolation, reasoning that if Flossy had been a true friend, not even Wilbur’s waywardness would have prevented her social recognition and success.  That, instead, this volatile, fickle prattler had used her so long as she needed her, and then dropped her heartlessly.  The memory of Flossy’s ball still rankled deeply, and appeared to Selma a more obvious and more exasperating insult as the days passed without a sign of explanation on the part of her late neighbor, and as her new projects languished for lack of a few words of introduction here and there, which, in her opinion, were all she needed to ensure her enthusiastic welcome as a social leader.  The appreciation that without those words of introduction she was helpless for the time being focused her resentment, already keen, on the successful Flossy, whose gay doings had disappeared from the public prints in a blaze of glory with the advent of the Lenten season.  Refusing to acknowledge her dependence, Selma essayed several spasmodic attempts to assert herself, but they proved unsatisfactory.  She made the most of Mr. Parsons’s predilection for her society, which had not been checked by Wilbur’s termination of the contract.  She was thus enabled to affiliate with some of their new friends, but she was disagreeably conscious that she was not making real progress, and that Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and their daughter had, like herself, been dropped by the Williamses—­dropped skilfully and imperceptibly, yet none the less dropped.  Two dinner parties, which she gave in the course of a fortnight to the most important of these new acquaintances, by way of manifesting to Wilbur her intention to enjoy her liberty at his expense, left her depressed and sore.

It was just at this time that Flossy took it into her head to call on her—­one of her first Lenten duties, as she hastened to assure Selma, with glib liveliness, as soon as she entered.  Flossy was in too exalted a frame of mind, too bubbling over with the desire to recite her triumphs, to have in mind either her doubts concerning Selma or the need of being more than mildly apologetic for her lack of devotion.  She felt friendly, for she was in good humor, and was naively desirous to be received in the same spirit, so that she might unbosom herself unreservedly.  Sweeping into the room, an animated vision of smiling, stylish cordiality, she sought, as it were, to carry before her by force of her own radiant mood all obstacles to an amiable reception.

“My dear, we haven’t met for ages.  Thank heaven, Lent has come, and now I may see something of you.  I said to Gregory only yesterday that I should make a bee-line for your house, and here I am.  Well, dear, how are you?  All sorts of things have happened, Selma, since we’ve had a real chat together.  Do you remember my telling you—­of course you do—­not long after Gregory and I were married that I never should