She was a bride of a few weeks and was then resting after a short honeymoon spent in Racine, Wisconsin, sixty miles north of Chicago.
"Why, Mr. Baptiste is coming. Coming to call on your sister. He has been corresponding with her for some time, you understand," her mother returned in her mild, trained manner.
"Oh!" echoed Ethel, apparently at a loss whether to be pleased or displeased. She was as often one way as the other, so her mother was apprehensive of something more.
"I think you have met him, have you not?" her mother inquired.
"Yes, I've met him," admitted Ethel. "Last winter while teaching."
"And what do you think of him, my dear?"
"Well, he has some ways I don't like."
"What ways, please?" She had started to say "naturally" but thought better of it.
"Oh, he does not possess the dignity I like in a man. Struck me as much too commonplace."
"Oh," her mother grunted. She was acquainted with Ethel's disposition, which was extremely vain. She loved pomp and ceremony, and admired very few people.