Her mood of perversity and defiance did not yield to a ten mile
gallop over the gentle hills of that lovely part of Indiana, but
held on through the afternoon and controlled her toilet for the
ball. She knew that every girl in town would appear at that most
fashionable party of the summer season in the best clothing she
could get together. As she had several dresses from Paris which
she not without reason regarded as notable works of art, the
opportunity to outshine was hers-- the sort of opportunity she
took pleasure in using to the uttermost, as a rule. But to be
the best dressed woman at Mrs. Bertram's party was too easy and
too commonplace. To be the worst dressed would call for courage
--of just the sort she prided herself on having. Also, it would
look original, would cause talk--would give her the coveted sense
of achievement.

When she descended to show herself to her father and say good
night to him, she was certainly dressed by the same pattern that
caused him to be talked about throughout that region. Her gown
was mussed, had been mended obviously in several places, had not
been in its best day becoming. But this was not all. Her hair
looked stringy and dishevelled. She was delighted with herself.
Except during an illness two years before never had she come so
near to being downright homely. ``Martha will die of shame,''
said she to herself. ``And Mrs. Bertram will spend the evening
explaining me to everybody.'' She did not definitely formulate
the thought, ``And I shall be the most talked about person of the
evening''; but it was in her mind none the less.

Her father always smoked his after-dinner cigar in a little room