'How can you, Sylvana? What an improper mind you possess! Besides—such questions—most reprehensible.'
'This must be searched to the bottom.'
'But—but!' gasped Mrs. Tomkin-Jones, 'consider the tureen!'
'You cannot afford to know the truth,' pursued Sylvana, 'because you have bought a soup-tureen and hired a butler! So, to preserve both, you thrust your head into a bush.'
Then Jesse, who had been seated in the window engaged in domestic needlework, darning a kitchen tablecloth that a stupid maid had cut through when slicing bread—and had been unnoticed by her mother and sister, as taking no part in the conversation—now started from her chair, threw down the tablecloth, and coming forward, laid her thimble-shod finger on the round rosewood table, and said:
'What does it matter to any of us who was Winefred's mother, and whence she came, and what was her maiden name? Winefred is sent to us, not that we may pick holes in her pedigree, but patch up gaps in her education. What does society care about her mother? Not a rush. It is solely those who are disappointed and soured who go about with the muck-rake scraping in the gutters for dirty, inconsidered, and castaway trifles, and rejoice in the foulest find the fork brings up. Society does not ask these questions, does not care about the mothers of those whom it admires. Society does recognise in Winefred a wholesome mind, a fresh nature, and a sound heart. These are things not brought to the surface by the muck-rake. Society recognises her good qualities and respects her, regardless of father or mother, for her own sake.'
'Oh, yes!' sneered Sylvana, 'you fight her battles because she has promised you a new gown and bonnet.'
'I fight the battles of any one who is an object of envy and spite to the gutter-scrapers.'
At that moment the front-door bell was rung, and a knock followed.