"Aren't you?" said the wise one. It barely missed being a sneer.
"Why not?" asked Ethel. She was the best-gowned woman in the United States. And she was ex-officio hors concours.
Grace Goodchild felt the stare of twenty pairs of eyes of differing degrees of brightness, but of the same degree of unbelief. They irritated her by flattering her. No woman can concentrate when watched by other women. Grace, therefore, was compelled to live up to the rôle which society had assigned to her, whether she liked it or not.
When you tell a man he is wise and ask for advice, he looks as wise as he can and answers ambiguously. When you tell a woman you don't believe her she indignantly tells you the truth.
"One of the reasons"—she spoke very sweetly—"is that he said my friends would ask me to do it but he did not wish me to add to his troubles."
The girls were listening with their very souls, for this was inside news.
Grace went on: "The commission will be absolutely impartial—"
"You don't know mother!" muttered Ethel Vandergilt.
Grace heard her, and she said, rebukingly, "Yes, absolutely impartial and—"
"Are you chosen one of the hundred?" asked the wise virgin.