When she reached Martha's and was ushered into the cool upstairs sitting room, in somehow ghastly contrast to the hot rooms where the young working people sweated and strained, the subject persisted in its hold on her thoughts. There was Martha, in comfortable, corsetless expansiveness—an ideal illustration of the worthless idler fattening in purposelessness. She was engaged with all her energies in preparing for the ball Hugo Galland's sister, Mrs. Bertrand, was giving at the assembly rooms that night.
"I've been hard at it for several days now," said she. "I think at last I see daylight. But I want your opinion."
Jane gazed absently at the dress and accompanying articles that had been assembled with so much labor. "All right," said she. "You'll look fine and dandy."
Martha twitched. "Jane, dear—don't say that—don't use such an expression. I know it's your way of joking. But lots of people would think you didn't know any better."
"Let 'em think," said Jane. "I say and do as I please."
Martha sighed. Here was one member of her family who could be a credit, who could make people forget the unquestionably common origin of the Hastingses and of the Morleys. Yet this member was always breaking out into something mortifying, something reminiscent of the farm and of the livery stable—for the deceased Mrs. Hastings had been daughter of a livery stable keeper—in fact, had caught Martin Hastings by the way she rode her father's horses at a sale at a county fair. Said Martha:
"You haven't really looked at my clothes, Jane. Why DID you go back to calling yourself Jane?"
"Because it's my name," replied her sister.
"I know that. But you hated it and changed it to Jeanne, which is so much prettier."
"I don't think so any more," replied Miss Hastings. "My taste has improved. Don't be so horribly middle class, Martha—ashamed of everything simple and natural."