"A public matter!" exclaimed Montague. "I should think so! To sit up
on top of a coach for the crowds to stare at, and for thirty or
forty newspaper reporters to take snap-shots of! And to have
yourself blazoned as the fascinating young widow from Mississippi
who was one of Stanley Ryder's party, and then to have all Society
looking at the picture and winking and making remarks about it!"

"You take such a cynical view of everything," protested Lucy. "How
can people help it if the crowds will stare, and if the newspapers
will take pictures? Surely one cannot give up the pleasure of going
for a drive--"

"Oh, pshaw, Lucy!" said Montague. "You have too much sense to talk
like that. If you want to drive, go ahead and drive. But when a lot
of people get together and pay ten or twenty thousand dollars apiece
for fancy coaches and horses, and then appoint a day and send out
notice to the whole city, and dress themselves up in fancy costumes
and go out and make a public parade of themselves, they have no
right to talk about driving for pleasure."

"Well," said she, dubiously, "it's nice to be noticed."

"It is for those who like it," said he; "and if a woman chooses to
set out on a publicity campaign, and run a press bureau, and make
herself a public character, why, that's her privilege. But for
heaven's sake let her drop the sickly pretence that she is only
driving beautiful horses, or listening to music, or entertaining her
friends. I suppose a Society woman has as much right to advertise
her personality as a politician or a manufacturer of pills; all I
object to is the sham of it, the everlasting twaddle about her love