She wished to know if everything, from the Flagg mansion down, was open
to criticism, but she would fain question the authority of the
censor--this glib, graceful woman whose white, starched cuffs seemed to
make light of her own sober, unadorned wrists.

This time Mrs. Taylor flushed faintly. She realized that their relations
had reached a critical point, and that the next step might be fatal. She
put down her teacup, and leaning forward, said with smiling confidential
eagerness, "I don't. I wouldn't admit it to anyone else. But what's the
use of mincing matters with an intelligent woman like you? I might put
you off now, and declare that Benham is well enough. But you would soon
divine what I really think, and that would be the end of confidence
between us. I like honesty and frankness, and I can see that you do. My
opinion of Benham architecture is that it is slip-shod and mongrel.
There! You see I put myself in your hands, but I do so because I feel
sure you nearly agree with me already. You know it's so, but you hate to
acknowledge it."

Selma's eyes were bright with interest. She felt flattered by the
appeal, and there was a righteous assurance in Mrs. Taylor's manner
which was convincing. She opened her mouth to say something--what she
did not quite know--but Mrs. Taylor raised her hand by way of
interdiction.

"Don't answer yet. Let me show you what I mean. I'm as proud of Benham
as anyone. I am absorbed by the place, I look to see it fifty years
hence--perhaps less--a great city, and a beautiful city too. Just at
present everything is commercial and--and ethical; yes, ethical. We wish
to do and dare, but we haven't time to adorn as we construct. That is,
most of us haven't. But if a few determined spirits--women though they