Chapter 3

In her demure head she knew that to fail would be to incur a danger that
was almost too terrible to contemplate. Her father might be persuaded
into marrying again, and the thought of such a catastrophe sobered and
restrained her. She was on her mettle, and was determined to succeed.
She had her check-book, her desk, her receipted bills. She had her
morning interviews with the cook; sent curtains to the cleaners; rang up
various tradespeople on the telephone; gently criticized Mary’s
window-cleaning, and George’s nails, and busied herself with these, and
innumerable other little cares, while Miss Simpkins waited in the study,
restlessly drumming her long, lean fingers on a French grammar.

Of course, she did several foolish, impulsive things, but no more than
some little bride might have done in the first novelty of controlling a
large household. She gave a tramp one of her father’s best suits of
clothes; she was prevailed upon by the servants to buy many things that
neither they nor anybody else could possibly need–including an
electrically driven knife-cleaner, and a cook’s table, so compact and
ingenious, that it would have been priceless on an airship, though in
her own spacious kitchen it was decidedly out of place; and it took her
several months to discover that James was apparently feeding five
elephants instead of five horses.

But she was quick to learn better; and with the innate capacity she
inherited from her father, she soon had everything running on oiled
wheels. And all this, if you please, at fifteen, with quite a bit of
stocking between her dress and her trimly-shod feet.

It was seldom that her father ever ventured into the realm of criticism;
but once or twice, in his smiling, easy-going way, he gently pulled her
up.

“I don’t know much about these things,” he remarked once, “but don’t
there seem to be a lot of new dresses in this family?”

“One can’t go naked, Papa.”

“Admitting that, my dear, which with people of our position would
certainly give rise to comment–couldn’t we compromise on–well–going
_half_-naked, and perhaps show a more Spartan spirit, besides, in regard
to our hats?”

Phyllis’ eyes filled with tears; and flushing with shame, she pressed
her hot cheek against the back of the chair she was sitting in, and felt
herself the most miserable, disgraced, unworthy little creature in the
whole world.

Mr. Ladd’s voice deepened, as it always did when he was moved.

“My darling,” he said, “don’t feel badly about it, because it is only a
trifle. But it is not kind to your companions to dress better than they
do, and I am sure you do not wish them to feel envious or resentful. I
just ask you to bear it in mind, that’s all, and be somewhat on your
guard.”

“I will, Papa.”

“Now come and kiss your daddy, and tell him you’re not cross with him
for being such an old fuss-cat.”

“Y-y-ou are n-not an old fu-u-uss-cat, but the dearest, darlingest,
bestest–“

“Do you think it’s right to bite a railroad president’s ear?”

“Yes, if you love him!”

“Or muss up the only hair he has, which isn’t very much?”

“Yes, if it helps you to think.”

“What’s that–_thinking_?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“It worries me, dearest, to have you doing anything as serious as that.”

“Papa, it is serious. Listen!”

“I’m listening,”

“I’ve a wonderful idea–I’m going to give a party!”

“Splendid–hope you’ll ask me!”

“And I’m going to invite Satty Morrison, and Julia Grant, and Hetty Van
Buren, and Maisie Smith, and the two Patterson girls, and perhaps Alicia
Stewart–and we are going to have ice-cream, and lady’s-fingers, and
chocolate-cake, and Christmas crackers, if I can buy them this time of
year–and, Papa, it’s going to be a _hat_-party.”

“Oh, a hat-party, goodness me, what’s that?”

“To give away all the silly, extravagant hats I’ve bought–though I’ll
have to get two new ones to make them go round–but you won’t mind that,
will you?”

“No, indeed–not for a hat-party.”

And next day the invitations were out.

This scandalous way of bringing up an only daughter caused many people
to shake their heads.

“It’ll end in a peck of trouble for Mr. Ladd some day,” said the old
cats, with which Carthage was as liberally stocked as any other great
and flourishing American city. “Mark my words, my dear, no good can
come of bringing up a girl like a wild Indian, and he’ll have nobody to
blame but himself if she goes headlong to the bad.”

*CHAPTER II*

At twenty, Phyllis Ladd was one of the prettiest girls in Carthage. A
little above medium height, slim, dark, and glowing like a rose, she
moved with that charming consciousness of beauty that is in itself
almost a distinction. The French and Spanish in her mother’s southern
blood showed itself in her slender feet and hands, in her grace, her
voice, her gentle, gracious, and engaging manners. One could not long
talk to her without realizing that behind those sparkling eyes there was
a fine and highly-sensitive nature, whimsical, original and intrepid;
and to know her well was to perceive that she was one of those women who
would love with rare intensity; and whose future, for good or evil, for
happiness or disaster, was irretrievably dependent on the heart.

In a dim sort of way she had the consciousness of this herself; her
flirtations went no further than to dance with the same partner three or
four times in the course of the same evening; and Carthage, which gave
its young people a great deal of innocent liberty–and which its young
people took with the greediness of children–in time got to consider
her, in spite of deceptive appearances, as being cold, proud, and
“exclusive.” Certainly her exclusiveness drew the line at being kissed
by boisterous young men, and though their company pleased and amused
her, she refused to single out one of them for any special favor.