"But what has Ann done?" said Meg. She planted herself in front of me, her hard, handsome eyes blazing with impatience. "She's as homely as the Sunset Cox statue and as uncivil to you as she dares; but she's only a cousin of the Frederickses, you mustn't mind her. What has Ann done, Helen?"
"She weighs two hundred and they call her 'Baby'! She's a fat slug on a currant bush! I won't talk about her."
I dashed into my room but Meg's staccato reached me even there.
"Just like Helen! Imagine Mrs. Henry's state of mind."
"And Ann's," said Mrs. Whitney.
"Oh, Ann's in mortal terror. But how can Helen expect pasty girls like Ann Fredericks—out last fall and already touching up—to forgive her beauty? Trouble is, every girl who comes near Helen knows she makes her look like a caricature."
Meg paced the floor a minute, then slapped herself into a chair.
"Oh, I've seen the women scowl at her," said Mrs. Whitney.
"Scowl?" said Meg. "Why, I've seen a woman actually put out her foot for Helen to trip over. Old women are the worst, I do believe; some of the young ones admire her. What do you think old Mrs. Terry said—Hughy Bellmer's aunt—at the last of her frightful luncheon concerts, where you eat two hours in a jungle of palms and orchids, and groan to music two hours more in indigestion. 'A lovely girl, my dear Mrs. Van Dam,' she said; 'a privilege to know her. Pity that so many of our best people fight shy of a protégée of the newspapers.' That from Mrs. Terry, with her hair and her hats—"
"And her divorce record," added Mrs. Whitney.