Grace Goodchild for the first time began to realize that H. R. was a remarkable man. She realized it by the simple expedient of disliking Ethel.
"Is it true that he'll do anything you tell him?" cut in Cynthia Coleman, enviously. She was a very pretty girl, with the absurd doll face that makes men feel so manly. She had brains. A girl with that face always has. She shows it by never showing them. The face does the trick more quickly.
Grace said, calmly, "H. R. never—"
"Oh, girls, she calls him H. R., too!" exclaimed Marion.
Feeling herself one of a multitude made Grace feel a mere human being. Created in the image of God, each of them naturally desires to feel like a goddess.
"I do not call him H. R.," said Grace, coldly.
"It is more important to know what he calls her," observed the wise one.
Grace remembered what H. R. had called her. She felt herself blushing with anger. Truly, the gods were kind to H. R.
"Coming back to our muttons, are you going to introduce us?" asked Ethel Vandergilt.
"I'm not going to have anything to do with the affair," said Grace, decisively.