the end. It'll do her good to find out that things can't both be done
and undone, if she's that sort. But p'r'aps she won't want to undo them.
When their pride's hurt women are mighty hard--harder than men by
far.... I wonder how long it'll take to get this Campbell to move. I
must start right in; I hain't got much time."

As soon as her father left her, Miss Ida hurried to her own room, in
order to recover from her agitation, and to remove all traces of it. She
was an only child, and had accordingly a sense of her own importance,
which happened to be uncorrected by physical deficiencies. Not that she
was astonishingly beautiful, but she was tall and just good-looking
enough to allow her to consider herself a beauty. Her chief attraction
was her form, which, if somewhat flat-chested, had a feline flexibility
rarer and more seductive than she imagined. She was content to believe
that nature had fashioned her to play the part in life which, she knew,
was hers of right. Her name, even, was most appropriate--dignified. Ida
should be queen-like, stately; the oval of her face should be long, and
not round, and her complexion should be pallid; colour in the cheeks
made one look common. Her dark hair, too, pleased her; everything, in
fact, save her eyes; they were of a nameless, agate-like hue, and she
would have preferred them to be violet. That would have given her face
the charm of unexpectedness, which she acknowledged was in itself a
distinction. And Miss Ida loved everything that conduced to distinction,
everything that flattered her pride with a sense of her own superiority.
It seemed as if her mother's narrowness of nature had confined and shot,
so to speak, all the passions and powers of the father into this one
characteristic of the daughter. That her father had risen to influence
and riches by his own ability did not satisfy her. She had always felt
that the Hutchingses and the society to which they belonged, persons who
had been well educated for generations, and who had always been more or