"I am sick of Newport," she replied. "And I'd rather never see Europe again, than think I was going at the expense of keeping other people drudging for a pittance! But you know very well father can afford a good deal of extra pay, end never feel it. You know you can—papa?"
Mr. Pomeroy had been listening to the discussion in silence. It rather amused him that his daughter should come out in such distinct opposition to her own interests; and, as she was decidedly his favorite, he did not care to take sides with Harold against her. Moreover, it always gratified his purse-pride to have his wealth put at a high estimate. So he only stretched himself out in his easy-chair, remarking, drily:
"It's well you haven't the business to manage, my dear. However, I am going to have a long talk with Willett to-morrow, and if it seems to me that the concern can stand it, I don't mind a little extra pay. Only don't complain if you can't get quite so many new dresses."
"I don't care for that," she said. "I've always had more than I could wear, and lots of people have to go without enough to keep them warm. It makes one feel mean, just to think of it."
Mrs. Pomeroy looked annoyed. She always wore grave colors, having some vague idea that these were more "consistent" than bright ones, but she loved rich and handsome materials, and as she "took an interest" in the Clothing Club, she did not see any reason for "feeling mean." And was she not at that moment embroidering an expensive cushion for a charitable bazaar—intended to coax a few dollars out of some one who had no idea of "giving, hoping for nothing again"?
"I wish you wouldn't take up these socialistic ideas, Clara," she said. "I do hope you haven't been talking to that young Graeme that Philip talks about! Why, Harold tells me Nora Blanchard actually bows to him, and that he's been at the house. I think it's very queer! I told Philip he mustn't think of bringing him here."
"Oh, you needn't be alarmed, mamma," the young lady replied. "I haven't the honor of even a bowing acquaintance with Mr. Graeme, and I don't suppose he's in the least anxious to visit here!"
Miss Pomeroy knew very well, from Roland's lecture, that he was better bred, better read, more thoughtful, and better worth knowing than half the people who did visit them; but where would be the use of trying to convey this impression to her mother, in whose eyes Roland was little better than a "communist" and therefore "worse than an infidel"?
"If you're going out, Harold," said Miss Pomeroy, "will you call a cab for me?"
"Where are you going to-night, then?" asked her mother.