being haunted by the irritating reflection that her clothes and her
bearing were inferior to those of the women she was passing. Secretly
she was making a resolve to imitate them, though she believed that she
despised them. She put her hand through her husband's arm and added,
almost fiercely, as she pressed closer to him, "We needn't trouble our
heads about them, Wilbur. We can get along without being rich and
fashionable, you and I. In spite of what you say, I don't consider this
sort of thing American."

"Get along? Darling, I was merely trying to be just to them; to let you
see that they are not so black as they're painted. We will forget them
forever. We have nothing in common with them. Get along? I feel that my
life will be a paradise living with you and trying to make some
impression on the life of this big, striving city. But as to its not
being American to live like these people--well you know they are
Americans and that New York is the Mecca of the hard-fisted sons of toil
from all over the country who have made money. But you're right, Selma.
Those who go in for show and extravagance are not the best
Americans--the Americans whom you and I believe in. Sometimes I get
discouraged when I stop to think, and now I shall have you to keep me
steadfast to our faith."

"Yes, Wilbur. And how far from here are we to live?"

"Oh, a mile or more. On some side street where the land is cheap and the
rent low. What do we care for that, Selma mia?"



CHAPTER II.