"Won't call?" he echoed helplessly.
"No. They think I'm not good enough to associate with them, I suppose."
The bushy eyebrows came down until they almost obscured the eyes, and a dangerous light seemed to scintillate out from under them.
"You must be mistaken. Good gracious, I am worth ten times what old
Sneed is. Not good enough? Why, my name on a cheque is——"
"It isn't a question of cheques, papa," wailed the girl; "it's a question of society. I was a painter's model before I married Ed., and, no matter how rich I am, society won't have anything to do with me."
The old man absent-mindedly rubbed his chin, which was a habit he had when perplexed. He was face to face with a problem entirely outside his province. Suddenly a happy thought struck him.
"Those Sneed women!" he said in tones of great contempt, "what do they amount to, anyhow? They're nothing but sour old maids. They never were half so pretty as you. Why should you care whether they called on you or not."
"They represent society. If they came, others would."
"But society can't have anything against you. Nobody has ever said a word against your character, model or no model."
The girl shook her head hopelessly.