"What OUTRAGEOUS things you do say!" cried Martha.
"I envy that black Jewess—that—what's her name?—that Selma Gordon."
"You don't even know them," said Martha.
Jane wheeled round with a strange laugh. "Don't I?" cried she.
"I don't know anyone else."
She strode to her sister and tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the riding stick.
"Be careful," cautioned Martha. "You know how easily my flesh mars—and I'm going to wear my low neck to-night."
Jane did not heed. "David Hull is a bore—and a fraud," she said. "I tell you I'd rather marry Victor Dorn."
"Do be careful about my skin, dear," pleaded Martha. "Hugo'll be SO put out if there's a mark on it. He's very proud of my skin."
Jane looked at her quizzically. "What a dear, fat old rotter of a respectability it is, to be sure," said she—and strode from the room, and from the house.