children, but this River Street crowd."

"Why, what's the matter with them?" asked Mrs. Burgoyne with
vivacity.

"Oh, I mean this business of playing bridge four afternoons a week,
and running to the club, and tearing around in motor-cars all day
Sunday, and entertaining the way they think people do it in New
York, and getting their dresses in San Francisco instead of up
here," Barry explained disgustedly. "Some of them would be nice
enough if they weren't trying to go each other one better all the
time; when one gets a thing the others have all got to have it, or
have something nicer. Take the Browns, now, your neighbors there--"

"In the shingled house, with the babies swinging on the gate as we
came by?"

"Yes, that's it. They've got four little boys. Doctor Brown is a
king; everybody worships him, and she's a sweet little woman; but of
course she's got to strain and struggle like the rest of them.
There's a Mrs. Willard White in this town--that big gray-shingled
place down there is their garage--and she runs the whole place.
She's always letting the others know that hobbles are out, and
everything's got to hang from the shoulder--"

"Very good!" laughed Mrs. Burgoyne, "you've got that very nearly
right."

"Willard White's a nice fellow," Barry went on, "except that he's a
little cracked about his Packard. They give motoring parties, and of