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 Sams Teach Yourself HTML,
CSS and JavaScript All in One

Julie C. Meloni

800 East 96th Street, Indianapolis, Indiana, 46240 USA

Sams Teach Yourself HTML, CSS, and JavaScript All in One
Copyright © 2012 by Pearson Education, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written
permission from the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with
respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although
every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the
publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or
omissions. Nor is any liability assumed for damages resulting from
the use of the information contained herein.
ISBN-13: 978-0-672-33332-3
ISBN-10: 0-672-33332-5
Acquisitions Editor
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First Printing November 2011
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Contents at a Glance
PART I: Getting Started on the Web
CHAPTER 1: Publishing Web Content
CHAPTER 2: Understanding HTML and XHTML Connections
CHAPTER 3: Understanding Cascading Style Sheets
CHAPTER 4: Understanding JavaScript
PART II: Building Blocks of Practical Web Design
CHAPTER 5: Working with Fonts, Text Blocks, and Lists
CHAPTER 6: Using Tables to Display Information
CHAPTER 7: Using External and Internal Links
CHAPTER 8: Working with Colors, Images, and Multimedia
PART III: Advanced Web Page Design with CSS
CHAPTER 9: Working with Margins, Padding, Alignment, and Floating
CHAPTER 10: Understanding the CSS Box Model and Positioning
CHAPTER 11: Using CSS to Do More with Lists, Text, and Navigation
CHAPTER 12: Creating Fixed or Liquid Layouts
PART IV: Getting Started with Dynamic Web Sites
CHAPTER 13: Understanding Dynamic Websites
CHAPTER 14: Getting Started with JavaScript Programming
CHAPTER 15: Working with the Document Object Model (DOM)
CHAPTER 16: Using JavaScript Variables, Strings, and Arrays
CHAPTER 17: Using JavaScript Functions and Objects
CHAPTER 18: Controlling Flow with Conditions and Loops
CHAPTER 19: Responding to Events
CHAPTER 20: Using Windows and Frames
PART V: Advanced JavaScript Programming
CHAPTER 21: Using Unobtrusive JavaScript
CHAPTER 22: Using Third-Party Libraries
CHAPTER 23: Greasemonkey: Enhancing the Web with JavaScript
CHAPTER 24: AJAX: Remote Scripting
PART VI: Advanced Website Functionality and Management
CHAPTER 25: Creating Print-Friendly Web Pages
CHAPTER 26: Working with Web-Based Forms
CHAPTER 27: Organizing and Managing a Website
CHAPTER 28: Helping People Find Your Web Pages
Index
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: Publishing Web Content
A Brief History of HTML and the World Wide Web
Creating Web Content
Understanding Web Content Delivery
Selecting a Web Hosting Provider
Testing with Multiple Web Browsers
Creating a Sample File
Using FTP to Transfer Files
Distributing Content Without a Web Server
Tips for Testing Web Content
CHAPTER 2: Understanding HTML and XHTML Connections
Getting Prepared
Getting Started with a Simple Web Page
HTML Tags Every XHTML Web Page Must Have
Organizing a Page with Paragraphs and Line Breaks
Organizing Your Content with Headings
Validating Your Web Content
The Scoop on HTML, XML, XHTML, and HTML5
CHAPTER 3: Understanding Cascading Style Sheets
How CSS Works
A Basic Style Sheet
A CSS Style Primer
Using Style Classes
Using Style IDs
Internal Style Sheets and Inline Styles
CHAPTER 4: Understanding JavaScript
Learning Web Scripting Basics
How JavaScript Fits into a Web Page
Exploring JavaScript’s Capabilities
Displaying Time with JavaScript
Beginning the Script
Adding JavaScript Statements
Creating Output
Adding the Script to a Web Page
Testing the Script
CHAPTER 5: Working with Fonts, Text Blocks, and Lists
Boldface, Italics, and Special Text Formatting
Tweaking the Font
Working with Special Characters
Aligning Text on a Page
The Three Types of HTML Lists
Placing Lists Within Lists
CHAPTER 6: Using Tables to Display Information
Creating a Simple Table
Controlling Table Sizes
Alignment and Spanning Within Tables
Page Layout with Tables
CHAPTER 7: Using External and Internal Links
Using Web Addresses
Linking Within a Page Using Anchors
Linking Between Your Own Web Content
Linking to External Web Content
Linking to an Email Address
Opening a Link in a New Browser Window
Using CSS to Style Hyperlinks
CHAPTER 8: Working with Colors, Images, and Multimedia
Best Practices for Choosing Colors
Understanding Web Colors
Using Hexadecimal Values for Colors
Using CSS to Set Background, Text, and Border Colors
Choosing Graphics Software
The Least You Need to Know About Graphics
Preparing Photographic Images
Creating Banners and Buttons
Reducing the Number of Colors in an Image
Working with Transparent Images
Creating Tiled Backgrounds
Creating Animated Web Graphics
Placing Images on a Web Page
Describing Images with Text
Specifying Image Height and Width
Aligning Images
Turning Images into Links
Using Background Images
Using Imagemaps
Integrating Multimedia into Your Website
CHAPTER 9: Working with Margins, Padding, Alignment, and
Floating
Using Margins
Padding Elements
Keeping Everything Aligned
Understanding the Float Property
CHAPTER 10: Understanding the CSS Box Model and
Positioning
The CSS Box Model
The Whole Scoop on Positioning
Controlling the Way Things Stack Up
Managing the Flow of Text
CHAPTER 11: Using CSS to Do More with Lists, Text, and
Navigation
HTML List Refresher
How the CSS Box Model Affects Lists
Placing List Item Indicators
Creating Image Maps with List Items and CSS
How Navigation Lists Differ from Regular Lists
Creating Vertical Navigation with CSS
Creating Horizontal Navigation with CSS
CHAPTER 12: Creating Fixed or Liquid Layouts
Understanding Fixed Layouts
Understanding Liquid Layouts
Creating a Fixed/Liquid Hybrid Layout
CHAPTER 13: Understanding Dynamic Websites
Understanding the Different Types of Scripting
Including JavaScript in HTML
Displaying Random Content
Understanding the Document Object Model
Changing Images Based on User Interaction
CHAPTER 14: Getting Started with JavaScript Programming
Basic Concepts
JavaScript Syntax Rules
Using Comments
Best Practices for JavaScript
CHAPTER 15: Working with the Document Object Model
(DOM)
Understanding the Document Object Model (DOM)
Using window Objects
Working with the document Object
Accessing Browser History
Working with the location Object
More About the DOM Structure
Working with DOM Nodes
Creating Positionable Elements (Layers)
Hiding and Showing Objects
Modifying Text Within a Page
Adding Text to a Page
CHAPTER 16: Using JavaScript Variables, Strings, and Arrays
Using Variables
Understanding Expressions and Operators
Data Types in JavaScript
Converting Between Data Types
Using String Objects
Working with Substrings
Using Numeric Arrays
Using String Arrays
Sorting a Numeric Array
CHAPTER 17: Using JavaScript Functions and Objects
Using Functions
Introducing Objects
Using Objects to Simplify Scripting
Extending Built-in Objects
Using the Math Object
Working with Math Functions
Using the with Keyword
Working with Dates
CHAPTER 18: Controlling Flow with Conditions and Loops
The if Statement
Using Shorthand Conditional Expressions
Testing Multiple Conditions with if and else
Using Multiple Conditions with switch
Using for Loops
Using while Loops
Using do...while Loops
Working with Loops
Looping Through Object Properties
CHAPTER 19: Responding to Events
Understanding Event Handlers
Using Mouse Events
Using Keyboard Events
Using the onLoad and onUnload Events
Using onclick to Change <div> Appearance
CHAPTER 20: Using Windows and Frames
Controlling Windows with Objects
Moving and Resizing Windows
Using Timeouts
Displaying Dialog Boxes
Working with Frames
Building a Frameset
Linking Between Frames and Windows
Using Inline Frames
CHAPTER 21: Using Unobtrusive JavaScript
Scripting Best Practices
Reading Browser Information
Cross-Browser Scripting
Supporting Non-JavaScript Browsers
CHAPTER 22: Using Third-Party Libraries
Using Third-Party Libraries
Other Libraries
CHAPTER 23: Greasemonkey: Enhancing the Web with
JavaScript
Introducing Greasemonkey
Working with User Scripts
Creating Your Own User Scripts
CHAPTER 24: AJAX: Remote Scripting
Introducing AJAX
Using XMLHttpRequest
Creating a Simple AJAX Library
Creating an AJAX Quiz Using the Library
Debugging AJAX Applications
CHAPTER 25: Creating Print-Friendly Web Pages
What Makes a Page Print-Friendly?
Applying a Media-Specific Style Sheet
Designing a Style Sheet for Print Pages
Viewing a Web Page in Print Preview
CHAPTER 26: Working with Web-Based Forms
How HTML Forms Work
Creating a Form
Accepting Text Input
Naming Each Piece of Form Data
Exploring Form Input Controls
Submitting Form Data
Accessing Form Elements with JavaScript
Displaying Data from a Form
Sending Form Results by Email
CHAPTER 27: Organizing and Managing a Website
When One Page Is Enough
Organizing a Simple Site
Organizing a Larger Site
Writing Maintainable Code
Thinking About Version Control
CHAPTER 28: Helping People Find Your Web Pages
Publicizing Your Website
Listing Your Pages with the Major Search Sites
Providing Hints for Search Engines
Additional Tips for Search Engine Optimization
INDEX
About the Author
Julie C. Meloni is the Lead Technologist and Architect in the Online
Library Environment at the University of Virginia. Before coming to
the library, she worked for more than 15 years in web application
development for various corporations large and small in Silicon
Valley. She has written several books and articles on Web-based
programming languages and database topics, including the
bestselling Sams Teach Yourself PHP, MySQL, and Apache All in One.
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Part I. Getting Started on the
Web
Chapter 1. Publishing Web Content

WHAT YOU’LL LEARN IN THIS CHAPTER:

• A very brief history of the World Wide Web
• What is meant by the term web page, and why that term doesn’t always reflect all
the content involved
• How content gets from your personal computer to someone else’s web browser
• How to select a web hosting provider
• How different web browsers and device types can affect your content
• How to transfer files to your web server using FTP
• Where files should be placed on a web server
• How to distribute web content without a web server
• How to use other publishing methods such as blogs
• Tips for testing the appearance and functionality of web content.

Before learning the intricacies of HTML (Hypertext Markup

Language), CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and JavaScript, it is
important that you gain a solid understanding of the technologies
that help transform these plain-text files to the rich multimedia
displays you see on your computer or handheld device when
browsing the World Wide Web. For example, a file containing
markup and client-side code HTML and CSS is useless without a web
browser to view it, and no one besides yourself will see your content
unless a web server is involved. Web servers make your content
available to others who, in turn, use their web browsers to navigate
to an address and wait for the server to send information to them.
You will be intimately involved in this publishing process because you
must create files and then put them on a server to make them
available in the first place, and you must ensure that your content
will appear to the end user as you intended.

A Brief History of HTML and the World Wide

Web
Once upon a time, back when there weren’t any footprints on the
moon, some farsighted folks decided to see whether they could
connect several major computer networks together. I’ll spare you the
names and stories (there are plenty of both), but the eventual result
was the “mother of all networks,” which we call the Internet.
Until 1990, accessing information through the Internet was a rather
technical affair. It was so hard, in fact, that even Ph.D.-holding
physicists were often frustrated when trying to swap data. One such
physicist, the now-famous (and knighted) Sir Tim Berners-Lee,
cooked up a way to easily cross-reference text on the Internet
through hypertext links.
This wasn’t a new idea, but his simple HTML managed to thrive
while more ambitious hypertext projects floundered. Hypertext
originally meant text stored in electronic form with cross-reference
links between pages. It is now a broader term that refers to just
about any object (text, images, files, and so on) that can be linked
to other objects. Hypertext Markup Language is a language for
describing how text, graphics, and files containing other information
are organized and linked together.

Note
For more information about the history of the World Wide
Web, see the Wikipedia article on this topic:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Web.

By 1993, only 100 or so computers throughout the world were

equipped to serve up HTML pages. Those interlinked pages were
dubbed the World Wide Web (WWW), and several web browser
programs had been written to allow people to view web pages.
Because of the growing popularity of the Web, a few programmers
soon wrote web browsers that could view graphical images along
with text. From that point forward, the continued development of
web browser software and the standardization of the HTML—and
XHTML—languages has lead us to the world we live in today, one in
which more than 110 million web servers answer requests for more
than 25 billion text and multimedia files.
These few paragraphs really are a brief history of what has been a
remarkable period. Today’s college freshmen have never known a
time in which the Web didn’t exist, and the idea of always-on
information and ubiquitous computing will shape all aspects of our
lives moving forward. Instead of seeing web content creation and
management as a set of skills possessed only by a few technically
oriented folks (okay, call them geeks if you will), by the end of this
book, you will see that these are skills that anyone can master,
regardless of inherent geekiness.

Creating Web Content

You might have noticed the use of the term web content rather than
web pages—that was intentional. Although we talk of “visiting a web
page,” what we really mean is something like “looking at all the text
and the images at one address on our computer.” The text that we
read, and the images that we see, are rendered by our web
browsers, which are given certain instructions found in individual
files.
Those files contain text that is marked up, or surrounded by, HTML
codes that tell the browser how to display the text—as a heading, as
a paragraph, in a red font, and so on. Some HTML markup tells the
browser to display an image or video file rather than plain text,
which brings me back to the point: Different types of content are
sent to your web browser, so simply saying web page doesn’t begin
to cover it. Here we use the term web content instead, to cover the
full range of text, image, audio, video, and other media found online.
In later chapters, you will learn the basics of linking to or creating
the various types of multimedia web content found in websites. All
you need to remember at this point is that you are in control of the
content a user sees when visiting your website. Beginning with the
file that contains text to display or codes that tell the server to send
a graphic along to the user’s web browser, you have to plan, design,
and implement all the pieces that will eventually make up your web
presence. As you will learn throughout this book, it is not a difficult
process as long as you understand all the little steps along the way.
In its most fundamental form, web content begins with a simple text
file containing HTML or XHTML markup. XHTML is another flavor of
HTML; the “X” stands for eXtensible, and you will learn more about it
as you continue through the chapters. The most important thing to
know from the outset is that all the examples in this book are HTML
4 and XHTML compatible, meaning that they will be rendered
similarly both now and in the future by any newer generations of
web browsers. That is one of the benefits of writing standards-
compliant code: You do not have to worry about going back to your
code sometime in the future and changing it because it doesn’t
work. Your code will likely always work for as long as web browsers
adhere to standards (hopefully a long time).

Understanding Web Content Delivery

Several processes occur, in many different locations, to eventually
produce web content that you can see. These processes occur very
quickly—on the order of milliseconds—and occur behind the scenes.
In other words, although we might think all we are doing is opening
a web browser, typing in a web address, and instantaneously seeing
the content we requested, technology in the background is working
hard on our behalf. Figure 1.1 shows the basic interaction between a
browser and a server.
Figure 1.1 A browser request and a server response.
However, there are several steps in the process—and potentially
several trips between the browser and server—before you see the
entire content of the site you requested.
Suppose you want to do a Google search, so you dutifully type
http://www.google.com in the address bar or select the Google
bookmark from your bookmarks list. Almost immediately, your
browser will show you something like what’s shown in Figure 1.2.
Figure 1.2 Visiting www.google.com.

Figure 1.2 shows a website that contains text plus one image (the
Google logo). A simple version of the processes that occurred to
retrieve that text and image from a web server and display it on
your screen is as follows:
1. Your web browser sends a request for the index.html file located
at the http://www.google.com/ address. The index.html file does
not have to be part of the address that you type in the address
bar; you’ll learn more about the index.html file further along in
this chapter.
 2. After receiving the request for a specific file, the web server
process looks in its directory contents for the specific file, opens
it, and sends the content of that file back to your web browser.
3. The web browser receives the content of the index.html file,
which is text marked up with HTML codes, and renders the
content based on these HTML codes. While rendering the
content, the browser happens upon the HTML code for the
Google logo, which you can see in Figure 1.2. The HTML code
looks like this:
<img src="/logos/logo.gif" width="384" height="121" border="0"
alt="Google"/>

The tag provides attributes that tell the browser the file source
location (src), width (width), height (height), border type (border), and
alternative text (alt) necessary to display the logo. You will learn
more about attributes throughout later chapters.
4. The browser looks at the src attribute in the <img/> tag to find the
source location. In this case, the image logo.gif can be found in
the logos directory at the same web address (www.google.com)
from which the browser retrieved the HTML file.
5. The browser requests the file at the
http://www.google.com/logos/logo.gif web address.
6. The web server interprets that request, finds the file, and sends
the contents of that file to the web browser that requested it.
7. The web browser displays the image on your monitor.
As you can see in the description of the web content delivery
process, web browsers do more than simply act as picture frames
through which you can view content. Browsers assemble the web
content components and arrange those parts according to the HTML
commands in the file.
You can also view web content locally, or on your own hard drive,
without the need for a web server. The process of content retrieval
and display is the same as the process listed in the previous steps in
that a browser looks for and interprets the codes and content of an
HTML file, but the trip is shorter; the browser looks for files on your
own computer’s hard drive rather than on a remote machine. A web
server is needed to interpret any server-based programming
language embedded in the files, but that is outside the scope of this
book. In fact, you could work through all the chapters in this book
without having a web server to call your own, but then nobody but
you could view your masterpieces.

Selecting a Web Hosting Provider

Despite just telling you that you can work through all the chapters in
this book without having a web server, having a web server is the
recommended method for continuing on. Don’t worry—obtaining a
hosting provider is usually a quick, painless, and relatively
inexpensive process. In fact, you can get your own domain name
and a year of web hosting for just slightly more than the cost of the
book you are reading now.
If you type web hosting provider in your search engine of choice,
you will get millions of hits and an endless list of sponsored search
results (also known as ads). There are not this many web hosting
providers in the world, although it might seem like there are. Even if
you are looking at a managed list of hosting providers, it can be
overwhelming—especially if all you are looking for is a place to host
a simple website for yourself or your company or organization.
You’ll want to narrow your search when looking for a provider and
choose one that best meets your needs. Some selection criteria for a
web hosting provider include the following”
• Reliability/server “uptime”—If you have an online presence,
you want to make sure people can actually get there consistently.
• Customer service—Look for multiple methods for contacting
customer service (phone, email, and chat) as well as online
documentation for common issues.
• Server space—Does the hosting package include enough server
space to hold all the multimedia files (images, audio, and video)
you plan to include in your website (if any)?
 • Bandwidth—Does the hosting package include enough
bandwidth so that all the people visiting your site and
downloading files can do so without you having to pay extra?
• Domain name purchase and management—Does the
package include a custom domain name, or must you purchase
and maintain your domain name separately from your hosting
account?
• Price—Do not overpay for hosting. You will see a wide range of
prices offered and should immediately wonder “what’s the
difference?” Often the difference has little to do with the quality of
the service and everything to do with company overhead and
what the company thinks they can get away with charging people.
A good rule of thumb is that if you are paying more than $75 per
year for a basic hosting package and domain name, you are
probably paying too much.
Here are three reliable web hosting providers whose basic packages
contain plenty of server space and bandwidth (as well as domain
names and extra benefits) at a relatively low cost. If you don’t go
with any of these web hosting providers, you can at least use their
basic package descriptions as a guideline as you shop around.
• A Small Orange (http://www.asmallorange.com)—The
“Tiny” and “Small” hosting packages are perfect starting places for
the new web content publisher.
• DailyRazor (http://www.dailyrazor.com)—Even its Rookie
hosting package is full featured and reliable.
• LunarPages (http://www.lunarpages.com)—The Basic
hosting package is suitable for many personal and small business
websites.

Note
I have used all these providers (and then some) over the years
and have no problem recommending any of them;
predominantly, I use DailyRazor as a web hosting provider,
especially for advanced development environments.
One feature of a good hosting provider is that it provides a “control
panel” for you to manage aspects of your account. Figure 1.3 shows
the control panel for my own hosting account at Daily Razor. Many
web hosting providers offer this particular control panel software, or
some control panel that is similar in design—clearly labeled icons
leading to tasks you can perform to configure and manage your
account.
Figure 1.3 A sample control panel.

You might never need to use your control panel, but having it
available to you simplifies the installation of databases and other
software, the viewing of web statistics, and the addition of email
addresses (among many other features). If you can follow
instructions, you can manage your own web server—no special
training required.

Testing with Multiple Web Browsers

Having just discussed the process of web content delivery and the
acquisition of a web server, it might seem a little strange to step
back and talk about testing your websites with multiple web
browsers. However, before you go off and learn all about creating
websites with HTML and CSS, do so with this very important
statement in mind: Every visitor to your website will potentially use
hardware and software configurations that are different than your
own. Their device types (desktop, laptop, netbook, smartphone, or
iPhone), their screen resolutions, their browser types, their browser
window sizes, and their speed of connections will be different—
remember that you cannot control any aspect of what your visitors
use when they view your site. So, just as you’re setting up your web
hosting environment and getting ready to work, think about
downloading several different web browsers so that you have a local
test suite of tools available to you. Let me explain why this is
important.
Although all web browsers process and handle information in the
same general way, there are some specific differences among them
that result in things not always looking the same in different
browsers. Even users of the same version of the same web browser
can alter how a page appears by choosing different display options
or changing the size of their viewing windows. All the major web
browsers allow users to override the background and fonts specified
by the web page author with those of their own choosing. Screen
resolution, window size, and optional toolbars can also change how
much of a page someone sees when it first appears on their screens.
You can ensure only that you write standards-compliant HTML and
CSS.
Do not, under any circumstances, spend hours on end designing
something that looks perfect on your own computer—unless you are
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
do not want to be rude and I certainly shall be if she involves me in these
feminist arguments.”
“I don’t believe Margaret would argue with you, Gage.” She said it
lightly, her insinuation that he was beyond the pale of argument flicking
him with a little sting.
“Possibly not. However, I should not care to waste her time. And as I
said to you to-night I don’t like her effect on you.”
“I am not particularly under her influence, Gage. I have my own ideas.
What you probably mean is that you object to my doing the things which
are interesting women all over the world.”
“When have I ever objected to anything you’ve done?”
“I’ve done nothing, have I? Been secretary to a few small town clubs.
Kept house. Tended my babies. That’s all I’ve done except play the piano.”
“Did that dissatisfy you as much as your tone implies?”
“It’s not enough to satisfy women now.”
He shrugged.
“Well—do anything you please, my dear. I certainly won’t stop you if
you run for office.”
She was very cold.
“You’re sneering at me, Gage.”
He tossed away his cigarette and came up to her where she stood, still
muffled in the cloak she had worn. She was fast in his embrace and it gave
her the moment of relief she had sought. She closed her eyes and lay
relaxed against his shoulder. And then came the creeping little fear. He had
managed her like that. He couldn’t respect her.
“Darling Helen—”
Her thought spoke.
“Margaret would never have let herself go off the point like this—”
“Oh, damn Margaret!” said Gage, letting her go, angrily.
Helen looked at him in disgust and went upstairs.

It wasn’t, thought Gage, pacing up and down the living room, as if he

were a reactionary. Helen knew that. He had no objection to women doing
anything. He’d said so. He’d shown it. He’d put women on his local
Republican committee. And sized them up pretty well too, he told himself.
They worked well enough on certain things. Some of them had good minds.
But the issue with him and Helen had nothing to do with granting women a
concession here and there. That was all right. The trouble was with this
woman, these women who made Helen so restless, so unsettled for no
particular reason, with no particular object. He hated, as he had said, the
self-consciousness of it all. He hated this self-conscious talk, this delving
into emotions, this analysis of psychical states and actions, this setting of
sex against sex. It ate into emotions. It had made women like that Margaret.
He measured his dislike of her, bitterly. Even on their wedding trip she had
interfered. He remembered the first flagging in Helen’s abandonment to her
love for him. That letter from Margaret, outwardly kind, he felt, outwardly
all right, but suggesting things had brought it about. Helen had shown it to
him.
“She’s afraid we’ll become commonplace married people,” she said,
“but we won’t, will we?”
There, at the start, it had begun. Discussion when there should have been
no discussion—feelings pried into. How he hated college women. It should
be prohibited somehow—these girls getting together and talking about
things. Forming these alliances. All along the line, for six years, and this
was the first time he’d even met her, this Margaret had been held up to him.
Margaret’s letters had come and with each of them would sweep over Helen
that fear that she was becoming dull—sliding backward—those little
reactions against him—those pull-backs. At the time Bennett was born the
same thing had happened. First the natural beauty, then that fear of being
swept under by “domesticity.” The way they used the word as if it were a
shame, a disgrace. He felt he had never told Helen the half he felt about
these things. And now that rotten oath had put him in the wrong. He’d have
to apologize. He’d have to begin with an apology and there he would be put
in the entire wrong again. It wasn’t as if women didn’t have to be handled
like children anyhow. They did. What could you do with them when they
got into moods except coax them out of it? There was Helen upstairs now,
probably hating him—wishing she were free—envying that spinster friend
of hers.
His thoughts took a sudden turn. She couldn’t quite wish that. Surely she
didn’t want not to be married to him. She’d never said anything like that.
He didn’t really think she had ever for a minute wished it. She was crazy
about Bennett and Peggy. She loved him too.
On that thought he went upstairs, his apology on his lips, his mind
tangled, but his need of peace with Helen very great.
 CHAPTER II

FREDA

F REDA met her father on the street three blocks from home. She saw him
coming, laden as usual with books, a package of papers from the
psychology class to correct—and the meat. The collar of his ulster was
turned up around his ears but Freda knew him even in the gathering
twilight, a block away. There was a dependency about Eric Thorstad’s
figure—about the meat—that was part of her life.
“Liver or veal?” she asked gayly, taking the fat package from under his
arm.
“It’s a secret.”
“Sausage,” she said, “I can tell by the feel and the smell.”
“Aren’t you late, Freda?”
“I went to the movies.”
“Again? I wish you wouldn’t go so often. What do you get out of them?”
“Thrills, father dear.”
“All unreal.”
She skipped into a stride that matched his.
“A thrill is a shiver of romance,” she declared, “it’s never unreal.”
“And what gives the shiver? The white sheet?”
“I’m open minded. Could be a well tailored garden, Nazimova’s gown, a
murder on a mountain.”
He laughed and they went along briskly until they came to the third in a
row of small yellow frame houses, and turned in at the scrap of cement
walk which led up to the porch.
In the kitchen Mrs. Thorstad turned from the stove to kiss them both.
“How was your meeting?” asked her husband.
A kind of glow came over Adeline Thorstad’s face.
“It was a lovely meeting. I am sure that it is significant that so many
women, even women like old Mrs. Reece will come to hear a talk on their
civic responsibilities. You should have managed to come, Freda.”
 Freda put an arm about her mother’s shoulders.
“I couldn’t,” she said. “I’d have spoiled the circle of thought. I don’t care
whether women vote or not.”
She was six inches taller than her mother’s neat prettiness and at first
glance not nearly so attractive. Her rather coarse hair was too thick and
pulled back into a loose low knot and her features were heavier than those
of her mother’s, her skin less delicate. The neat pyramid of her mother’s
blond hair, her smooth, fair skin were almost as they had been fifteen years
before. But Freda showed more promise for fifteen years hence. Her hair
shaded from yellow to orange red, her eyes were deep blue and her loose-
hung, badly managed figure showed a broad gracefulness that her mother’s
lacked.
She had somehow taken the little qualities of her mother’s prettiness and
made them grander, so that she seemed to have been modeled from an
imperfect idea rather than a standard type. In her father was the largeness of
build which might have accounted for her, though not too obviously for Mr.
Thorstad stooped a little and days in the classroom had drained his face of
much natural color. Still he had carried over from some ancestor a
suggestion of power which he and his daughter shared.
“Don’t talk like that, Freda. It’s so reactionary. Women nowadays—”
“I know. But I don’t especially approve of women nowadays,” teased
Freda. “I think that maybe we were a lot more interesting or delightful or
romantic as we were when we didn’t pretend to have brains.”
But her mother ignored her.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” she said. “Set the table and then I must tell you
my news.”
They were used to news from Mrs. Thorstad. She was full of the
indomitable energy that created little events and situations and exulted in
them. Victories in the intrigues of the district federated clubs, small
entanglements, intricate machinations were commonplaces to her husband
and daughter since Mrs. Thorstad had become district vice-president.
So now when the sausage, flanked by its mound of mashed potatoes,
came sizzling to the table and Freda had satisfied her soul by putting three
sprays of red marsh-berries in a dull green bowl in the middle, they looked
forward to dinner with more anticipation than to Mrs. Thorstad’s surprise.
But she began impressively, and without delay.
 “I think that this entrance of women into politics may alter the whole
course of our lives.”
Freda and her father exchanged a whimsical friendly glance in which no
disrespect blended.
“No doubt,” said Mr. Thorstad.
“If I were called to public office, think what a difference it would
make!”
“What difference?” asked Freda.
“Why—there’d be more money, more chances to better ourselves.”
Her husband seemed to shrink at the cheaply aspiring phrase, then
looked at her with something like the patience of one who refuses to be
hurt.
“So now you want to be the breadwinner too, my dear?”
Perhaps she took that for jocosity. She did not answer directly.
“I met Mrs. Brownley—the Mrs. Brownley—at a meeting not long ago.
She said she thought there would be a future for me.”
“No doubt,” said her husband, again.
He gazed into the sausage platter reflectively.
Twenty years ago, he might have remembered, Adeline Miller had
thought there was a future for him. She had intended to better herself
through him. She was teaching then in a little town and he was county
superintendent. They had met and been attracted and after a little she had
condoned the fact of his Swedish name and of the two parents who spoke
no English. She had exchanged the name of Miller for Thorstad, soberly,
definitely determined to better herself and profit by the change.
Then there came Freda. Freda, who had stimulated them both as healthy
promising babies are likely to stimulate their parents. Thorstad had become
a High School instructor, then had left that position after eight years to
come as assistant to the professor of psychology in the Mohawk State
Normal School, at a slightly lower salary, but “bettering himself.” Ten years
ago, that was. He was head of his department now—at three thousand a
year. It was his natural height and he had attained it—not a prospector in his
work, but a good instructor always. It had taken much labor to have come
so far, nights of study, summers spent in boarding houses near the
University that he might get his degrees. And Adeline had gone along her
own path. During all these years in Mohawk she had been busy too. First
with little literary clubs, later with civic councils, state federations, all the
intricate machinery of woman’s clubdom.
She had her rewards. Federation meetings in the cities, little speeches
which she made with increasing skill. She had been “speaking” for a long
time now. During the war she fortified her position with volunteer speaking
for Liberty Loans, War Saving Stamps. All this in the name of “bettering
others.” All this with that guiding impulse to “better herself.”
Her husband made no demands on her time which interfered with any
public work. If it was necessary he could cook his own meals, make his
own bed, even do his own washing, and there had been times when he had
done all this for himself and Freda. Not that Mrs. Thorstad ever neglected
her family. The Family, like Democracy and the Cradle, were three strong
talking points always. She was a fair cook and a good housekeeper, a little
mechanical in her routine but always adequate. And when she was away she
always left a batch of bread and doughnuts and cookies. It was never hard
on Eric and he, unlike some men, was handy around the house. He was
handy with Freda too from the time he dressed her as a baby until now.
Now he was handy with her moods, with her incomprehensible
unwillingness to better herself by sharing in her mother’s plans.
Leaning a little toward her mother now, Freda brought the conversation
off generalities.
“But the news? We are all agog.”
“The news is that we are to have distinguished guests on Thursday. Mrs.
Brownley, Mrs. Gage Flandon, and Miss Margaret Duffield of New York
are making a tour of the country and they are to stop here for a day. I am to
arrange everything for them. There is no telling to what it may lead.”
“They’re coming here?” Freda’s tone was disgusted. “A lot of women
spellbinders. Oh, Lord, save us. I’m going camping.”
“It is a great privilege,” said her mother, with a tight little motion of her
lips. “I shall need you, Freda.”
 CHAPTER III

ON THE STUMP

S T. PIERRE was the big city of the state. Around it a host of little towns,
farming, manufacturing, farther away even mining, made it their center
and paid it tribute by mail-order and otherwise. It was one of the Middle
West cities at which every big theatrical star, every big musical “attraction,”
every well booked lecturer spent at least one night. It boasted branch
establishments of exclusive New York and Chicago shops. It had its
paragraph in the marriage, birth and death section in Vogue. Altogether it
was not at all to be ignored.
Harriet Thompson had known what she was doing when she sent
Margaret Duffield West to organize the women of the St. Pierre section in
groups which could be manipulated for the Republican party.
Margaret stayed with Mrs. Brownley for a few days and then spent a
week with Helen, during which time she found a pleasant room and bath
which she leased by the month, and to which she insisted on going.
Helen’s remonstrances had no effect.
“You’re foolish to think of such a thing as my camping on you. Why I
may be here for several months. No, I couldn’t. Besides we’ll have a really
better time if we don’t have to be guesting each other. And I get a
reasonable amount for expenses which really needn’t be added on to your
grocery bill. Gage has party expense enough.”
Gage was very cordial, particularly as he saw that her visit was not to be
indefinite. It hurried him perhaps into greater gallantry than he might have
otherwise shown. He did everything to be the obliging host and to his
surprise enjoyed himself immensely. Margaret was more than a good talker.
She gave him inside talk on some things that had happened in Washington.
She could discuss politicians with him. No one spoke of the deteriorating
influences of marriage and the home on women. Margaret was delightful
with the children. She did not hint at a desire to see him psychoanalyzed.
He found himself rather more coöperative than antagonistic and on the day
of Margaret’s definite removal to her new room he was even sorry.
Helen found the new room most attractive. It was a one-room and bath
apartment, so-called, furnished rather badly but with a great deal of air and
light.
“It feels like college,” she said, sinking down on a cretonne covered
couch bed. “Atrocious furniture but so delightfully independent. What fun it
must be to feel so solidly on your own, Margaret.”
“Not always fun, but satisfying,” said Margaret, making a few passes at
straightening furniture.
Helen sighed faintly and then lost the sigh in a little laugh.
“I’m actually afraid to ask you some things,” she admitted, “I’m afraid
of what you’ll say. Would you really sooner not be married?”
“I think so. Emotional moments of course. On the whole I think I’d
rather not be.”
“But you didn’t always feel that way.”
“No—not six years ago.”
“Then was there a man you wanted?”
“There were several men. But I didn’t want them hard enough or they
didn’t want me simultaneously.”
“Where are they now?”
“God knows—quarreling with their wives, perhaps.”
“And you don’t care?”
“Truly—not a bit.” Margaret’s eyes were level and quite frank. “It’s all
dreadful nonsense, this magazine story stuff about the spinsters with their
secret yearnings covered up all the time. I’m going to do something to prick
that bubble before I die. Of course the conceit of married people is endless
but at least spinsters have a right to as much dignity as bachelors.”
“All right,” said Helen, “I’ll respect you. I know I’m going home and
that you aren’t following me with wistful eyes wishing you could caress my
babies. Is that it? You comb your hair without a qualm and go down to
dinner.”
“Exactly. Only before you go I want you to promise to go with us on this
trip to the country towns. We’ll be gone three days only. Gage can spare
you.”
“I don’t quite see what use I’d be.”
“I do. I want you to talk to them and charm them. I can organize. Mrs.
Brownley can give them Republican gospel. What I want you to do is to
give them a little of the charm of being a Republican. Borrow some of
Gage’s arguments and use your own manner in giving them and the result
will be what I want.”
“Don’t I seem rather superfluous?”
“We couldn’t do it without you. Mrs. Brownley for name—you for
charm—and I’ll do the rest of the work.”
Helen looked at her watch.
“Gage will beat me,” she declared, “I’m late for dinner again.”

II

The train bumped along for several hours. Mrs. Brownley read, her book
adjusted at a proper distance from her leveled eye-glasses. Helen and
Margaret fell into one of those interminable conversations on what was
worth while a woman’s doing. They were unexcited, but at Mohawk, Mrs.
Thorstad arrived thirty minutes early at the railroad station, with Mrs.
Watson’s car, which she had commandeered. Mrs. Watson had also offered
lunch but at the last minute her Hilda had become sick and thrown her into
such confusion that Mrs. Thorstad, brightly rising to the occasion, had taken
lunch upon herself and even now Freda was putting a pan of scalloped
potatoes into the oven and anxiously testing the baking ham.
It had fallen naturally to Mrs. Thorstad to arrange the meeting in
Mohawk, Mrs. Brownley writing her that she need not consider it a partisan
meeting, that its object was merely educative, to explain to the women what
the Republican party meant. And Mrs. Thorstad had few scruples about
using her influence to get as large a group together for the meeting as she
could. To have these three celebrities for a whole day had been a matter of
absorbing thought to her. They were to have a luncheon at her home, then to
have an afternoon meeting at the Library and a further meeting in the
evening. Mrs. Thorstad knew she could get a crowd out. She always could.
Freda had not minded getting lunch. She didn’t mind cooking, especially
when they could lay themselves out in expense as was considered proper to-
day. But she hated meeting these strange, serious-minded women. She had
looked in the glass at herself and decided several times that she was
altogether out of place. She had tried to bribe her mother into pretending
she was a servant. But that was in vain. So Freda had put on the black
taffeta dress which she had made from a Vogue pattern and was hoping they
had missed their train.
Coming to the kitchen door her mother called her and she went in
reluctantly. Then she saw Helen and her face lit up with interest. Her
mother had said Mrs. Flandon was nice looking but she had pictured some
earnest looking youngish woman. This—this picture of soft gray fur and
dull gold hair! She was like a magazine cover. She was what Freda had
thought existed but what she couldn’t prove. And it was proven.
Speeding on the heels of her delight came shyness. She shook hands
awkwardly, trying to back out immediately. But Helen did not let her go at
once.
“We are a lot of trouble, I’m afraid, Miss Thorstad.”
“Oh, no you’re not. It’s not a bit of trouble. I’ll have lunch ready soon,
but it will be very simple,” said Freda.
Her voice, thought Freda, is like her clothes. It’s luxurious.
The lunch was ready soon and to the visitors it was very pleasant as they
went into the little dining-room. It was so small that the chairs on one side
had to be careful not to back up against the sideboard. The rug was worn to
thinness but the straight curtains at the windows, which did not shut out the
sun, were daffodil yellow and on the table the little pottery bowl with three
blossoming daffodils picked out the same note of defiant sunlight again.
Helen looked around her appreciatively.
Freda served them quietly, slipping into her own chair, nearest the door
to the kitchen, only after the dishes were all in place and every one eating.
She took her own plate from her mother absently. The others were talking.
She listened to them, the throaty, assured voice of Mrs. Brownley, Miss
Duffield’s clear, definite tones and the voice of Mrs. Flandon, with a note of
laughter in it always, as if she mocked at the things she said. Yet always
with light laughter.
“Are you interested in all this political business?” asked Mrs. Flandon of
her, suddenly.
 “No,” said Freda, “Not especially. But mother is, so I hear a great deal of
it.”
Her mother laughed a little reprovingly.
“Freda has been too busy to give these things time and thought.”
“How are you busy? At home?”
She let her mother answer that.
“Freda graduated from the Normal last year. We hoped there would be a
teaching opening here for her but as there wasn’t, we persuaded her to stay
home with us and take a little special work at the Normal.”
Helen kept her eyes on the girl’s face. Keenly sensitive to beauty as she
was, she had felt that it was the girl rather than the mother who created the
atmosphere of this house with which she felt in sympathy. She wanted to
talk to her. As the meal progressed she kept her talking, drew her out little
by little, and confidence began to come back to Freda’s face and frankness
to her tongue.
“She’s beautiful,” thought Helen, “such a stunning creature.”
But it was later that she got the key to Freda.
They were in the living room and she picked up some of the books on
the table. They interested her. It was a kind of reading which showed some
taste and contemporary interest. There was the last thin little gray-brown
“Poetry,” there was “The Tree of Heaven,” “Miss Lulu Bett,” Louis
Untermeyer’s poems. Those must be Freda’s. There was also what you
might expect of Mrs. Thorstad. Side by side lay the “Education of Henry
Adams” and “The Economic Consequences of the Peace.”
“Of course the mother reads those,” thought Helen, “after she’s sure
they’re so much discussed that they’re not dangerous any longer. But the
mother never reads ‘Poetry.’ ”
“Your daughter likes poetry?” she asked Mrs. Thorstad.
“She reads a great deal of it. I wish I could make her like more solid
things. But of course she’s young.”
Mrs. Flandon went out to the kitchen where Freda was vigorously
clearing up.
“You’re doing all the work,” she protested.
 “Very sketchily,” confessed Freda, “I can cook better than I clear up,
mother tells me.”
“That may be a virtue,” said Helen. She stood leaning against the door,
watching Freda.
“Who reads poetry with you?”
“Father—sometimes. Oh, you mustn’t think because you see some
things I’m reading that I’m that sort. I’m not at all. I’m really not clever
especially. I just like things. All kinds of things.”
“But what kinds?”
“Just so they are alive, that’s all I care. So I scatter—awfully. I can’t get
very much worked up about women in politics. It seems to me as if women
were wasting a lot of time sometimes.”
“You are like me—a natural born dilettante.”
“Are you that?” asked Freda. Her shyness had gone. Here was some one
to whom she could talk.
“I’m afraid I am. I like things just as you do—if they’re alive. It’s a bad
way to be. It’s hard to concentrate because some new beautiful thing or
emotion keeps dragging you off and destroys your continuity. And in this
world of earnest women—”
“You criticize yourself. You feel that you don’t measure up to the women
who do things. I know. But don’t you think, Mrs. Flandon, that something’s
being lost somewhere? Aren’t women losing—oh, the quality that made
poets write such things about them—I don’t know, it’s partly physical—
they aren’t relaxed—”
She stood, pouring her words out in unfinished phrases as if trying
desperately to make a confession or ask her questions before anything
interrupted, her face lit up with eagerness, its fine, unfinished beauty
diffused with half-felt desires. As she stopped, Helen let her stop, only
nodding.
“I know what you mean. You’re right. It’s all mixed up. It’s what is
puzzling the men too. We must talk, my dear.”
Helen was quite honest about that. She meant to talk with Freda. But
there was no time that afternoon. In the Library club-room, crowded with
women who had come at Mrs. Thorstad’s bidding for a “fresh inspiration,”
Helen found her hands full. She gave her talk, toning it up a bit because she
saw that Freda was expecting things of her and so wandering off the point a
little. But the charm that Margaret wanted was in action and Margaret,
quickly sensing the possibilities of Mrs. Thorstad’s town, settled down to
some thorough organization work.
It was after the meeting that night that Helen saw Freda again. And then
not in the hall. She had noticed the girl slip out after her own talk, as Mrs.
Brownley rose to “address” the meeting, and wondered where she was
going. To her discomfiture she had found that she was billeted on Mrs.
Watson for the night as befitted their respective social dignities, and that
Margaret was to spend the night at the Thorstad house.
But it was from Mrs. Watson’s spare room window that she saw Freda.
The skating rink, a square of land, flooded with water and frozen, lay
below. As she went to pull down the shade in her bed-room window—she
had escaped from Mrs. Watson as promptly as possible—Helen’s eyes fell
on the skaters, skimming swiftly about under arc lights which, flickering
bright and then dim, made the scene beautiful. And then she saw Freda. She
was wearing the red tam-o’-shanter which Mrs. Flandon had already seen
and a short red mackinaw and as she flashed past under the light, it was
unmistakably she—not alone. There was a young man with her.
Helen watched her come and go, hands crossed with her partner,
watched the swing of her graceful body as it swayed so easily towards the
man’s and was in perfect tune with it.
“That’s one way you get the alive and beautiful, is it?” thought Helen.
Then, after a little, by some signal, the rink was declared closed. The
skaters, at the sides of the rink, sat on little benches and took off their
skates. The young man knelt beside Freda and loosened the straps, a pretty
bit of gallantry in the moonlight.
He had her arm. They were going home, walking a little more close to
each other than was necessary, looking up, bending down. Helen could
almost feel what they were feeling, excitement, vigor, intimacy. A little
shiver went over her as she pulled down the shade at last and looked around
at the walls with their brown scrolls and mottoed injunction to

“Sleep sweetly in this quiet room,

Oh, thou, whoe’er thou art.”
 CHAPTER IV

CITY MICE

T HE dismay of the young Brownleys was as great as that of Freda. But

their indomitable mothers won.
“But, mother,” cried Allison Brownley, “you don’t mean you’d ask
that—that little Swede girl here to the house? For a month? Why, I should
think you’d see how impossible that is. We can’t treat her as a servant, can
we?”
“No,” said Mrs. Brownley, “you can’t—not at all. She’s a very clever
girl—Normal School graduate.”
Allison sank on a divan, her short skirts shorter than ever in her
abandonment, her face a picture of horrified dismay.
“Normal School—you know what they are! Pimples and plaid skirts two
inches from the ground,—China silk white waists. Oh, mother dear, it’s
very sweet of you to think of her, but it couldn’t be done. What would we
do with her? Why, the days are just full! All kinds of things planned now
that Easter’s over. We couldn’t take her about, and we couldn’t leave her at
home. The Brownley girls and their little Swede friend! Mother, I do think
you ought to keep politics out of the home.”
Barbara joined in now. That was always her policy. To let Allie state the
case and get excited over it and then to go after her mother reasonably if her
mother didn’t give in. She was a more languorous type than Allie. “Bed-
room eyes” one of the boys had said, at the height of his puppy wit.
“If you had to ask them, mother, Lent would have been the time. It just
can’t be managed now. As a matter of fact I’ve practically asked Delia
Underwood to spend three weeks here.” That was a lie and she knew her
mother would know it, but it gave her mother a graceful way out of the
difficulty.
But unfortunately Mrs. Brownley did not seem to be looking for loop-
holes. She sat serenely at her desk, her eye-glasses poised upon the bills she
was auditing.
“I think you will like Miss Thorstad,” she answered, ignoring all the
protests. “You see it’s really quite important for me to have her here. The
mother is a very clever little woman and with a possible political future.
Miss Duffield thinks very highly of her. While we are doing this active
campaign work she will be invaluable here in the city. She’s a good
organizer—and she’s a plain woman. She can handle plain women, Miss
Duffield insists, better than we can. I wish you girls would understand that
there is a great deal involved in this campaign. If we stand well out here it
will be important for the district—in Washington.”
“Yes, mother—but why the daughter?”
“For the simple reason that Mrs. Thorstad said she didn’t like to leave
her at home alone. It put me in the position of having to ask her. She is, as I
remember, a pretty well-appearing girl. Mrs. Flandon, whom you admire so
much, Allie, was immensely taken with her. At any rate, they have been
asked, they will accept and they arrive next week.”
Allie looked dark.
“Well, mother,” she said, with a fair imitation of her mother’s tone, “if
you expect me to give up everything for the sake of this little Swede, you’re
mistaken. The men will just howl when they see her.”
“Cheer up, Allie,” said Barbara, “they may fall in love with her.
Brunhilde, you know—and all of that. I think it’s a shame, mother.”
The girls looked at each other. They weren’t ordinarily allies, but this
mess was one they both would have to worry over. Their mother rose.
“Of course, girls,” she said, “it is an inconvenience. But it’s a good thing
to do. It means more than you may guess. Be nice to Miss Thorstad and
you’ll not be sorry. It might mean that platinum bracelet for you, Barbara,
and for Allie—”
“Mother,” exclaimed Allie, “if I’m an angel to your little Swede would
you let me have a new runabout—a Pierce, painted any color I like?”
Her mother merely smiled at her but Allie knew her claim was good. She
turned to her sister as her mother left the room.
“She’s going to do it, Bobbie, and we might just as well get something
out of it. I’ll tell the girls I’m getting my new car that way and they’ll all
help. We’ll give little Miss Olson the time of her life.”
 “You get more out of it than I do, I notice.” Barbara was inspecting
herself in the mirror of her vanity case from which she allowed nothing
except sleep to separate her.
“That’s all right, Bob. I’ll do most of the heavy work, I’ll bet.”
“I shan’t be able to do much, I’ll tell you that. Miss Burns wants me for
fittings every day next week and I’ve a lot of dates, for evenings.”
“Ted’s giving you quite a rush, isn’t he darling? Do you think he’s
landed this time or is it just that it’s your turn?”
Barbara did not blush. She looked straight at her sister, her slim face
disgusted.
“Pretty raw, aren’t you? As a matter of fact I think he could be landed if
I had the slightest desire to do it. I’m not at all sure that I want him.”
Allie grinned.
“That’s all right. That’s what they all say, all the ones he gives a rush and
leaves lamenting. I am sort of surprised that you’d fall for him so hard.
Even if he is the ideal lover, every one who isn’t cross-eyed knows how he
does it. I’d like a little more originality, myself.”
“I tell you this, Allie. That man has been misunderstood. Because he’s so
rich and good looking every one’s chased after him and then when he was
decently civil they’ve taken advantage of him by spreading stories about his
flirtations. He’s told me some things about girls—”
“Dirty cad,” said Allie, cheerfully.
“All right, if you want to be insulting, I won’t talk to you.”
“Well, tell me what he said. I won’t think about his being a dirty cad
until afterwards.”
What humor there was was lost on Barbara.
“I don’t care to talk any more about him.”
Barbara looked at her watch to conclude matters.
“And by the way, Allie, mother said I could use the limousine. I’ve got a
lot of things to do and I’ll need Chester all afternoon. Mrs. Watts is taking
mother to the Morley reception and I’m calling for her. She said you could
have the electric.”
“My God!” said Allie. “Why doesn’t she offer me a hearse? Thanks, I’d
sooner take old 1898 out again. And think about that Pierce I’m going to
earn.”
She was out of the room in a minute, flying up the stairs, some grotesque
words to a dance tune floating behind her. The Packard runabout, “old
1898,” was humming down the garage drive half an hour later. Stopping at
two houses impressive as her own, she regaled the girls who were her
friends with accounts of the “Swedish invasion.” It was a good story,
especially with the promise of the reward tacked on the end.

II

But it was three days before Freda had capitulated. Her first reaction had
been an angry shame at her mother’s inclusion of her in her own invitation.
She had simply flatly refused to go. A little later it was possible to regard
the business with some humor, and the shame had lost its sting. She had
never known those people anyhow—never would know them—it didn’t
matter what they thought. When she saw that the matter was not ended and
sensed the depth of determination in her mother’s mind that her daughter
should go with her to the Brownley’s she tried to be more definite even than
before in her refusal. Her mother did not seem to hear her. She insisted on
keeping the subject open, never admitting for a minute that it was or could
be closed. She dwelt endlessly on the advantages of the visit—on the fact
that the chance for Freda had come at last.
“Chance!” stormed Freda, “why it isn’t a chance to do anything except
sponge on a few rich people whom I’ve never seen before in my life. You
don’t really suppose, mother, that I’d go down there and let those Brownley
girls make my life miserable. You don’t seem to realize, mother, that those
two Brownleys are a very gay lot. They must be about my age—the older
one anyway. Why, I wouldn’t think of it. What on earth would I do? What
on earth would I wear? What would I say? What on earth would I be there
anyhow? I’m no politician. I’m not helping Mrs. Brownley strengthen her
fences or anything. If you ask me, mother, I wouldn’t think of going if I
were you. Don’t you know she’s just making a play to the gallery by having
you? Probably bragging about her great sense of democracy! Why,
mother!”
“You don’t seem to realize,”—Mrs. Thorstad always began that way by
assuming that you had missed her point, a point which was and always
would be in accord with Right Living and Democracy and the Family and
the Home, “that these social distinctions are of no value in my estimation.
In this great country—”
Freda led her mother away from the brink of oratory.
“Look here,” she said, “if they aren’t a lot more important than we are—
if you don’t think they are—what is this wonderful chance you are talking
about?”
Just at what point Freda gave in, just at what point she felt that the
possibilities of her trip outweighed its impossibilities she did not know. It
was certain that the young Brownleys gave way to no noisier public
mockery of the proposed visit than did Freda. She was even a little shrill.
She told everybody how she “hated it,” how she was going along to the
homes of the idle rich to chaperon her mother, that she was “breaking into
high society,” that she was gathering material for a book on “how the other
half lives,” that she would probably be mistaken for a housemaid and asked
to dust the bed-rooms, that mother was trying to “marry her off,” that she
“didn’t have an idea what to wear.” She talked to almost every one she met,
somewhat unnecessarily, somewhat defiantly, as if determined to let any
one know about her reasons for going, as if defending herself against any
accusations concerning her motive in making such a visit, perhaps making
sure that no later discomfiture on her own part could be made more severe
by any suspicion of pleasurable anticipation.
She planned her clothes for St. Pierre with mocking but intense
deliberation. A dark blue tricotine dress—she bought that at the ladies’
specialty shop and taking it home ripped off all the trimming substituting
the flattest and darkest of braid. That was safe, she knew. She might not be
startling but she would be inoffensive, she told her mother. There was a
dress made by Miss Peterson, who sewed by the day, from a remnant of
bronze georgette, and half shamefacedly Freda came home one night with a
piece of flame colored satin and made it herself into a gown which hung
from the shoulders very straightly and was caught at the waist with silver
cord (from the drapery department). And there was an evening dress at
which Freda scoffed but she and Miss Peterson spent some fascinated hours
over it, making pale green taffetas and tulle fit her lovely shoulders.
“Though what I’m getting these clothes for is a mystery to me,”
grumbled Freda. “They probably won’t even ask me to go out. Probably
suggest that I eat with the servants.”
 Yet she tried on the evening dress in the privacy of her room parading
before her bureau mirror, which could not be induced to show both halves
of her at once. And as she looked in the glass there came back the reflection
of a girl a little flushed, excited, eager, as if in spite of all her mockery there
was a dream that she would conquer unknown people and things—a hope
that wonders were about to happen.
Never was there a trace of that before her mother. Having agreed to go,
Freda was, on the whole, complaisant, but on principle unenthusiastic.
Her father gave her two hundred dollars the night before she went away.
Mrs. Thorstad was at a neighbor’s house and the gift was made in her
absence without comment on that fact. Freda, whose idea of a sizable check
for her spending money was five dollars and of an exceptionally large one,
ten, gasped.
“But what do I need this for?”
“You’ll find ways, my dear. It’s—for some of the little things which
these other young ladies may have and you may lack. To put you at ease.”
“Yes, but it’s too much, father dear. For three or four weeks. You can’t
possibly afford it.”
“Oh, yes, my dear. Only try to be happy, won’t you? Remember that it’s
always worth while to learn and that there are very few people in the world
who aren’t friendly by nature.”
That thought carried Freda through the next twenty-four hours,
beginning with worry when she got on the train as to whether they were
expecting her after all, through a flurry of excitement at the sense of “city”
in St. Pierre, the luxury of the limousine which had been sent to meet them,
through the embarrassment of hearing her mother begin to orate in a mild
fashion on the beauty of Mrs. Brownley’s home and the “real home spirit”
which she felt in it. Freda felt sure that such conversation was not only out
of place but bad taste anyway. She was divided between a desire to carry
the visit off properly, showing the Brownleys that she was not gauche and
stupid, and an impulse to stalk through the days coldly, showing her disdain
for mere material things and the impossibility of impressing her. Yet the
deep softness of the hall rugs, the broad noiseless stair carpets, the glimpses
through doorways into long quiet rooms seemingly full of softly
upholstered furniture, lamps with wonderfully colored shades, pictures
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