V“Oh! Come on, Mary. It’s Garbo, and a grand film—all about Paris. And a story by a tiptopauthor. There was an opera of it once.”
“It’s frightfully nice of you, Ted¹, but I really won’t.”
Ted Bigland said angrily:
“I can’t make you out nowadays, Mary. You’re different—altogether different.”
“No, I’m not, Ted.”
“You are! I suppose because you’ve been away to that grand school and to Germany. You’retoo good for us now.”
“It’s not true, Ted. I’m not like that.”
She spoke² vehemently³.
The young man, a fine sturdy specimen⁴, looked at her appraisingly⁵ in spite of his anger.
“Yes, you are. You’re almost a lady, Mary.”
Mary said with sudden bitterness:
“Almost isn’t much good, is it?”
He said with sudden understanding:
“No, I reckon it isn’t.”
Mary said quickly:
“Anyway, who cares about that sort of thing nowadays? Ladies and gentlemen, and all that!”
“It doesn’t matter like it did—no,” Ted assented⁷, but thoughtfully. “All the same, there’s afeeling. Lord, Mary, you look like a duchess or a countess or something.”
Mary said:
“That’s not saying much. I’ve seen countesses looking like old-clothes women!”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black, bore down upon them. Hereyes gave them a sharp glance. Ted moved aside a step or two. He said:
“Afternoon, Mrs. Bishop⁸.”
Mrs. Bishop inclined her head graciously.
“Good afternoon, Ted Bigland. Good afternoon, Mary.”
She passed on, a ship in full sail.
Ted looked respectfully after her.
Mary murmured.
“Now, she really is like a duchess!”

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