value, as she herself was beginning to perceive.  And, although she met very few society men, just now, being called upon to amuse feminine luncheons or stay overnight with Emily when nobody else was at home, still her social progress seemed miraculously swift to Thorny, to Billy and Georgie and Virginia, even sometimes to herself.  But she wanted more—­more—­more!  She wanted to be one of this group herself, to patronize instead of accepting patronage.

Slowly her whole nature changed to meet this new hope.  She made use of every hour now, discarded certain questionable expressions, read good books, struggled gallantly with her natural inclination to procrastinate.  Her speech improved, the tones of her voice, her carriage, she wore quiet colors how, and became fastidious in the matter of belts and cuffs, buttons and collars and corsets.  She diverted Mary Lou by faithfully practicing certain beautifying calisthenics at night.

Susan was not deceived by the glittering, prismatic thing known as Society.  She knew that Peter Coleman’s and Emily Saunders’ reverence for it was quite the weakest thing in their respective characters.  She knew that Ella’s boasted family was no better than her own, and that Peter’s undeniable egoism was the natural result of Peter’s up-bringing, and that Emily’s bright unselfish interest in her, whatever it had now become, had commenced with Emily’s simple desire to know Peter through Susan, and have an excuse to come frequently to Hunter, Baxter & Hunter’s when Peter was there.

Still, she could not divest these three of the old glory of her first impressions.  She liked Emily and Ella none the less because she understood them better, and felt that, if Peter had his human weaknesses, he was all the nearer her for that.

Mrs. Lancaster would not allow her to dine down-town with him alone.  Susan laughed at the idea that she could possibly do anything questionable, but kept the rule faithfully, and, if she went to the theater alone with Peter, never let him take her to supper afterward.  But they had many a happy tea-hour together, and on Sundays lunched in Sausalito, roamed over the lovely country roads, perhaps stopped for tea at the Carrolls’, or came back to the city and had it at the quiet Palace.  Twice Peter was asked to dine at Mrs. Lancaster’s, but on the first occasion he and Susan were begged by old Mrs. Baxter to come and amuse her loneliness instead, and on the second Susan telephoned at the last moment to say that Alfie was at home and that Auntie wanted to ask Peter to come some other time.

Alfie was at home for a dreadful week, during which the devoted women suffered agonies of shame and terror.  After that he secured, in the miraculous way that Alfie always did secure, another position and went away again.

“I can stand Alfie,” said Susan to Billy in strong disgust.  “But it does make me sick to have Auntie blaming his employers for firing him, and calling him a dear unfortunate boy!  She said to me to-day that the other clerks were always jealous of Alfie, and tried to lead him astray!  Did you ever hear such blindness!”