"I hope you won't mind Judith," Pansy put in; "she's always like
that." A silence followed in which they industriously dipped the
leaves of mammoth artichokes into a buttery sauce. Linda, as
customary, said very little, she listened with patient care to the
others and endeavored to arrive at conclusions. She liked Pansy, who
was as warm and simple as her father. Judith was harder to understand.
She was absorbed in color and music, and declared that ugliness gave
her a headache at once. Altogether, Linda decided, she was rather
silly, especially about men; and at times her emotions would rise
beyond control until she wept in a thin hysterical gasping.

The room where, mostly, they sat was small, but with a high ceiling,
and hung in black, with pagoda-like vermilion chairs. The light, in
the evening, was subdued; and Pansy and Judith, in extremely
clinging vivid dresses, the former's hair piled high in an amber
mass and Judith's drawn severely across her ears, were lovely. Linda
thought of the tropical butterflies of the river Amazon, of orchids
like those always on the dining-room table. A miniature grand piano
stood against the drapery, and Judith often played. Linda learned to
recognize some of the composers. Pansy liked best the modern
waltzes; Judith insisted that Richard Strauss was incomparable; but
Linda developed an overwhelming preference for Gluck. The older girl
insisted that this was an affectation; for a while she tried to
confuse Linda's knowledge; but finally, playing the airs of "Orpheus
and Eurydice," she admitted that the latter was sincere.

"They sound so cool," Linda said in a clear and decided manner.

There was a man with them, and he shook his head in a mock sadness.
"So young and yet so formal. If, with the rest, you had Judith's