"What horrid taste,—and what coarse, uncouth creatures! Who is Kathie Alston, anyhow? A decided parvenu, to my thinking. Are they really rich,—the Alstons?"
"No, it is Kathie's uncle, Mr. Conover. He made a fortune off in Australia, I believe. They were poor enough before!" Lottie uttered this rather spitefully. Kathie's refusal to assist her that noon still rankled in her mind.
"Did they live here then?"
"O yes! in one of a row of little cottages; and Mrs. Alston had to sew for a living."
The murder was out. Lottie had a misgiving that this was decidedly mean and treacherous; and yet, she said to herself, it was every word true. Why should the Alstons be ashamed of it? Only it did seem mortifying.
"This is just about what I thought. Kathie Alston hasn't a bit of style or dignity; and how they do dress her! There was some common linen edging on that ruffle she wore to-day, and I don't believe she ever has more than two dresses at the same time. Plebeian blood will tell. Hattie Norman asked me about them, but I told her Kathie was only a little chit that she wouldn't care to invite. I don't suppose they let her go to parties, or that she knows how to dance. What is the inside of their house like?"
"It is very beautiful."
"Tawdry and cheap, I fancy. Such people have no taste. There is a great deal in birth. My mother was one of the Van Cortlands, of New York,—real old blue blood; and I can always tell commoners. I wish there could be some distinction here."