It would have been such fun, for she does so disapprove of all of us; thinks us a little flock of silly geese.
Well, we are, I guess, but wasn't she one herself once?
She has a pretty hard time even now making life interesting for herself--out here, anyhow.
"Yesterday we motored down to Menlo and dropped in at the Maynards.

There were a lot of the props of San Francisco society, all as rich as croesus, sitting on the veranda crocheting socks or sacks for a crop of new babies that are due.

One or two were hemstitching lawn, or embroidering a monogram, or something else equally useless or virtuous.

They were talking mild gossip, and didn't even have powder on.

It was ghastly--" "Helene," said Ruyler abruptly, "what do you think is the secret of happiness--I mean, of course, the enduring sort--perhaps content would be the better word.