butterfly. Hung on one arm was her umbrella, and she carried her
reticule in both hands for safety. So, with all her accoutrements on,
she sat, pleasantly aware that she was at once self-respecting and
adventurous.

They started in a whirl of good-byes, shrieks of delight from Hazel,
and advice of Mrs. Marston to the driver to put the brake on and keep
it on. Hazel was perched on the side of the truck near her. They
rounded a turn with great dignity, the trailer, with Mrs. Marston
as its figure-head--wearing an expression of pride, fear, and
resignation--swinging along majestically.

'Please, Mrs. Marston, can I buy a green silk gown wi' yellow roses
on?'

'Certainly not, my dear. It would be most unsuitable. So very far from
quiet.'

'What's quiet matter?'

'Quietness is the secret of good manners. The quieter you are, the more
of a lady you'll be thought. All truly good people are quiet in
manners, dress, and speech, just as all the best horses are advertised
as quiet to ride and drive, but few are really so.'

'Han you got to be ever and ever so quiet to be a lady?'

'Yes.'

'What for have you?'