“How do you mean? Clothes?”
“Clothes, of course, but I could stand that if they weren’t so cheap in their ideas—if they had some ambition—if they weren’t so ghastly self-satisfied. Look at them in there, playing cards all the blessed afternoon for a silly, ugly painted plate.”
Fliss knew what was inside the tissue paper packages on the mantel.
“Most women play cards. All the women you admire so much have bridge-luncheons.”
“I know, but they play for something worth while; give the proceeds to charities.”
“I’ve seen them playing for money that they couldn’t afford to lose,” answered Ellen.
“Well—even that. My goodness, it’s better to play for money—have real stakes—than to get all worked up and hot and cross over silly cake plates. Oh, I don’t know—the other women are so different, anyway, so much more alive. This is sort of sordid.”
“Um——,” said Ellen noncommittally.
“If I thought,” went on Fliss, “that I would settle down and get like those old harpies, I’d—well, I’d just want to die now,” finished Fliss, with drama.
Ellen did not seem impressed.