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trailed down the sumptuous stuffy room, where coffee-fumes hung perpetually under the emblazoned ceiling and the spongy carpet might have absorbed a year’s crumbs without a sweeping.
    About them sat other pallid families, richly dressed, and silently eating their way through a bill-of-fare which seemed to have ransacked the globe for gastronomic incompatibilities; and in the middle of the room a knot of equally pallid waiters, engaged in languid conversation, turned their backs by common consent on the persons they were supposed to serve.
    Undine, who rose too late to share the family breakfast, usually had her chocolate brought to her in bed by Céleste,after the manner described in the articles on ‘A Society Woman’s Day’ which were appearing in
Boudoir Chat
. Her mere appearance in the restaurant therefore prepared her parents for those symptoms of excessive tension which a nearer inspection confirmed, and Mr Spragg folded his paper and hooked his glasses to his waistcoat with the air of a man who prefers to know the worst and have it over.
    ‘An opera-box!’ faltered Mrs Spragg, pushing aside the bananas and cream with which she had been trying to tempt an appetite too languid for fried liver or crab mayonnaise.
    ‘A parterre box,’ Undine corrected, ignoring the exclamation, and continuing to address herself to her father. ‘Friday’s the stylish night, and that new tenor’s going to sing again in
Cavaleeria
,’ she condescended to explain.
    ‘That so?’ Mr Spragg thrust his hands into his waistcoat pockets, and began to tilt his chair till he remembered there was no wall to meet it. He regained his balance and said: ‘Wouldn’t a couple of good orchestra seats do you?’
    ‘No; they wouldn’t,’ Undine answered with a darkening brow.
    He looked at her humorously. ‘You invited the whole dinner-party, I suppose?’
    ‘No – no one.’
    ‘Going all alone in a box?’ She was disdainfully silent. ‘I don’t s’pose you’re thinking of taking mother and me?’
    This was so obviously comic that they all laughed – even Mrs Spragg – and Undine went on more mildly: ‘I want to do something for Mabel Lipscomb: make some return. She’s always taking me ’round, and I’ve never done a thing for her – not a single thing.’
    This appeal to the national belief in the duty of reciprocal ‘treating’ could not fail of its effect, and Mrs Spragg murmured: ‘She never
has
, Abner,’ – but Mr Spragg’s brow remained unrelenting.
    ‘Do you know what a box costs?’
    ‘No; but I s’pose you do,’ Undine returned with unconscious flippancy.
    ‘I do. That’s the trouble.
Why
won’t seats do you?’
    ‘Mabel could buy seats for herself.’
    ‘That’s so,’ interpolated Mrs Spragg – always the first to succumb to her daughter’s arguments.
    ‘Well, I guess I can’t buy a box for her.’
    Undine’s face gloomed more deeply. She sat silent, her chocolate thickening in the cup, while one hand, almost as much beringed as her mother’s, drummed on the crumpled table-cloth.
    ‘We might as well go straight back to Apex,’ she breathed at last between her teeth.
    Mrs Spragg cast a frightened glance at her husband. These struggles between two resolute wills always brought on her palpitations, and she wished she had her phial of digitalis with her.
    ‘A parterre box costs a hundred and twenty-five dollars a night,’ said Mr Spragg, transferring a toothpick to his waistcoat pocket.
    ‘I only want it once.’
    He looked at her with a quizzical puckering of his crow’s-feet. ‘You only want most things once, Undine.’
    It was an observation they had made in her earliest youth – Undine never wanted anything long, but she wanted it ‘right off’. And until she got it the house was uninhabitable.
    ‘I’d a good deal rather have a box for the season,’ she rejoined, and he saw the opening he had given her. She had two ways of getting things out of him against his principles: the