He's a dear, sweet boy, of course, and does you credit, but he's not of my world, Jane, dear, and I'd have to make him all over again before he could fit into my atmosphere.

Besides, he told me this morning that he was going off for a week with some fisherman on the beach--some person by the name of Fogarty, I think." "Yes, a fine fellow; they have been friends from their boyhood." She was not thinking of Fogarty, but of the tone of Lucy's voice when speaking of her son.
"Yes--most estimable gentleman, no doubt, this Mr.Fogarty, but then, dear, we don't invite that sort of people to dinner, do we ?" and another laugh rippled out.
"Yes, sometimes," answered Jane in all sincerity.

"Not Fogarty, because he would be uncomfortable if he came, but many of the others just as humble.

We really have very few of any other kind.

I like them all.
Many of them love me dearly." "Not at all strange; nobody can help loving you," and she patted Jane's shoulder with her jewelled fingers.
"But you like them, too, don't you?
You treat them as if you did." Lucy lifted her fluted petticoat, rested her slippered foot on the fender, glanced down at the embroidered silk stocking covering her ankle, and said in a graver tone: "I like all kinds of people--in their proper place.