Only apparently. Every one knows how small the little rift within the lute is. So are most beginnings.
Mrs. Bertram felt, that in her way, she had effected quite a victory. She stepped into her brougham to return to Rosendale Manor with a pleasing sense of triumph.
"I am thankful to say that ordeal is over," she remarked. "And I think," she continued, with a smile, "that when the Northbury people see my cards, awaiting them on their humble hall-tables, they will have learnt their lesson."
Neither of the girls made any response to this speech. Mabel was leaning back in the carriage looking bored and cross, but Catherine's expression was unusually bright.
"Mother," she exclaimed suddenly, "I met such a nice girl at the bazaar."
"You made an acquaintance at the bazaar, my dear Catherine," answered Mrs. Bertram with alacrity. "You made an acquaintance? The acquaintance of a girl? Who?"
"Her name is Beatrice Meadowsweet. She is a dear, delightful, fresh girl, and exactly my own age."
Catherine's dark face was all aglow. Her handsome brown eyes shone with interest and pleasure.
"Catherine, how often, how very often have I told you that expressions of rapture such as you have just given way to are underbred."
"Why are they underbred, mother?" Catherine's tone was aggressive, and Mabel again kicked her sister's foot.