Mathilde wished that her mother was not so elaborate. Hitherto she had
always gloried in Adelaide's elegance as a part of her beauty; but now,
as she watched the ritual of ribbons and laces and perfumes and jewels,
she felt vaguely that there was in it all a covert insult to Pete's
mother, who, she knew, would not be a bit like that.

"How young you are, Mama!" she exclaimed as, the whole long process
complete, Adelaide stood holding out her hand for her gloves, like a
little girl ready for a party.

Her mother smiled.

"It's well I am," she said, "if you go on trying to get yourself involved
with young men who live up four flights of stairs. I have always avoided
even dressmakers who lived above the second story," she added wistfully.

The wistful tone was repeated when her car stopped at the Wayne door and
she stepped out.

"Are you sure this is the number, Andrews?" she asked. She and the
chauffeur looked slowly up at the house and up and down the street. They
were at one in their feeling about it. Then Adelaide gave a very gentle
little sigh and started the ascent.

The flat did not look as well by day. Though the eastern sun poured in
cheerfully, it revealed worn places on the backs of the arm-chairs and
one fearful calamity with an ink-bottle that Pete had once had on the
rug. Even Mrs. Wayne, who sprang up from behind her writing-table, had
not the saint-like mystery that her blue draperies had given her the
evening before.