I explained briefly what Camp Fire was.
“Gee,” said Ethel elegantly, “none of that for mine!” And she picked up her eyebrow pencil again and did a little more frescoing.
I went back to my work in disgust. I was so disappointed in Ethel Harper. I had expected that the daughter of such a fine family would be a real lady in every sense of the word—cultured, genuine, thoroughbred; and she had turned out to be nothing but a cheap imitation—slangy, ill-bred, snobbish, overdressed and made up like an actress. Beyond her pretty, baby doll face there was nothing to her. There wasn’t an ounce of brains in her poor flat head.
And yet, she was tremendously popular in her own snobbish set, as I could gather from conversations around me, and by the invitations she was constantly receiving to festivities. Although she was not formally out in society, I knew that she went out to dances with men very often, when her mother thought that she was spending the night with girl friends. I found that out from telephone conversations Ethel carried on when her mother was out of the way. It was plain to be seen that Ethel had only one ambition in the world, and that was to have a good time, regardless of how she got it.
It wasn’t any of my business, of course, but I couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Harper would do if she knew about some of Ethel’s little excursions. Mrs. Harper had a flinty sort of nature and you only had to look into those cold eyes of hers to know that it would go hard with anyone who had displeased her. One morning I had a good chance to see her when she was roused. A Cloisonné locket belonging to Mrs. Harper had disappeared from her jewel box and she had accused her maid, Clarice, of taking it. Clarice, frightened out of her wits, was tearfully protesting her innocence, but Mrs. Harper towered over her like a fury, threatening to hand her over to the police. Ethel, sitting in a rocking chair polishing her finger nails, listened indifferently. I felt embarrassed to witness this painful scene and stood irresolute, unable to decide whether to go out or stay, when Mrs. Harper turned to me and said, “Make out a check for Clarice’s wages for the month and deduct twenty-five dollars from it, the value of the locket she stole. Then insert an advertisement in the papers for a new maid.”
Clarice, with a fresh burst of grief, declared again that she knew nothing about the locket, and begged not to be sent away with a black character, because she had a paralyzed sister to support, but Mrs. Harper was unmoved. Out went Clarice, bag and baggage, crying as she went and still declaring her innocence.
“These maids will steal you blind, if you give them a chance,” said Mrs. Harper, still bristling with anger.
“I never did like Clarice,” remarked Ethel with a yawn.
The next day Mrs. Harper went out during the morning and Ethel called me to help her pack her visiting bag. She was going to spend the week-end with a girl friend. No new maid had come to take Clarice’s place as yet, so Ethel took advantage of my not having much work to do for her mother that morning to press me into service.
“I can’t find my wrist watch,” she said as I came in. “I don’t know whether I put it in the bag or not, and I haven’t time to look. Will you look through the bag while I finish dressing?”