discontented with ourselves. They were making a pretence of simplicity
and unconventionality; but they had brought each her full complement of
servants with her, and each was apparently giving herself in the summer
to the unrealities that occupied her during the winter. Everywhere Annie
had found the affectation of intellectual interests, and the assumption
that these were the highest interests of life: there could be no doubt
that culture was the ideal of South Hatboro', and several of the ladies
complained that in the summer they got behind with their reading, or their
art, or their music. They said it was even more trouble to keep house in
the country than it was in town; sometimes your servants would not come
with you; or, if they did, they were always discontented, and you did not
know what moment they would leave you.

Annie asked herself how her own life was in any wise different from that of
these people. It had received a little more light into it, but as yet it
had not conformed itself to any ideal of duty. She too was idle and vapid,
like the society of which her whole past had made her a part, and she owned
to herself, groaning in spirit, that it was no easier to escape from her
tradition at Hatboro' than it was at Rome.

When she reached her own house again, Mrs. Bolton called to her from the
kitchen threshold as she was passing the corner on her way to the front
door: "Mis' Putney's b'en here. I guess you'll find a note from her on the
parlour table."

Annie fired in resentment of the uncouthness. It was Mrs. Bolton's business
to come into the parlour and give her the note, with a respectful statement
of the facts. But she did not tell her so; it would have been useless.

Mrs. Putney's note was an invitation to a family tea for the next evening.