# The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 2/Chapter 3
#### III.

The house which Cecilia had provided for her family was a small one on a side street, but they were established, she felt, in comparative comfort. They had room enough, a servant, and no boarders; and if, in their new leisure and loneliness, Mrs. Clayber and Mabel were extremely bored, that was hardly Cecilia's fault.
Neither could she be blamed if Bertha overshadowed the other two and was more in the line of social opportunities. Bertha was a charming figure, and needed no explanation or apology; she pleased Mr. Hawley in a way, though he thought she needed discipline. But Mabel and Mrs. Clayber bored him, and they were nervous and self-conscious in his presence, and therefore constantly saying the wrong things. Hence it was Bertha who was invited to stay in the house and to meet people. Cecilia in tended to "do something" for Mabel too, but later, when she herself had got the details of her new life in hand. She felt herself not only an intermediary between her family and her husband, but in some sort a buffer.
For the family was not contented. Bertha's desire for pleasure and naive feeling that she was entitled to it had constantly to be repressed. Mabel was jealous of Bertha, and, with her mother, thought that Cecilia was unnecessarily business-like with them. They were dependent on her, and that fact gave an edge to their criticism of her. Cecilia's conscientiousness presented an angular side to them.
In smaller ways Cecilia tried to be strictly impartial between the two sisters. Thus, since Bertha was to have a new hat, she bought one for Mabel too, taking the girls first to the milliner's, then to luncheon at a restaurant, and leaving them at the door of their theatre. Every Saturday Cecilia gave them two tickets to the gallery, and sometimes the girls went together, sometimes one of them with Mrs. Clayber. (They thought that Cecilia might as well have sent them three tickets.)
On this particular Saturday Bertha was in high spirits, while Mabel was correspondingly gloomy. The privations of a plain girl with a pretty sister were sharper than ever to her. Bertha's prospects rankled. And the two hours' seance at the milliner's had been simply a trial to her spirit. Bertha, trying on innumerable hats, had found difficulty only in deciding amid an embarrassment of riches; everything was becoming to her, as the exclamations of "Madame" and her assistants witnessed. Mabel's difficulty, on the contrary, was to find something festive which would not call attention to the sallowness of her skin and the unfortunate shape of her nose. Finally, being admonished by Cecilia that she must hurry, she chose a black hat, sober enough by contrast with Bertha's white and shell-pink; and was morose for the rest of the day.
Even the play did not cheer her, though it was the sort of romance that both the girls fed on: a Princess, obliged for state reasons to marry a certain Prince, wooed by him incognito, and discovering the joyful truth only when she met him at the altar. What more delightful theme could be imagined? And the last moment, when she looked up at him and her mute despair flashed into joy! Bertha was in raptures, full of sighs and exclamations of bliss, as she dragged Mabel in her wake through the crowd and into a confectioner's to get some hot chocolate. The place was full of matinee-goers, and the frosty streets, ablaze with light, were crowded and gay. Shivering as they came out of the shop into the keen wind, Mabel turned up the collar of her coat and started west for the Elevated, but Bertha stopped her.
"Come on, I'm going down this way for a minute," she said, hurrying along Broadway.
"What for? We'll be late now. And you know after six the bridge will be jammed," expostulated Mabel.
"Never you mind, come along," Bertha said mysteriously.
She frowned, looking resolute and adventurous, and slipped along through the crowd at a pace that made it hard for Mabel not to lose sight of her. At last she stopped before the main doors of a big establishment covering half the frontage of a block, and having a line of huge windows which displayed nothing except a sober interior—piles of cloth on long tables, rows of electric lights, and a number of salesmen.
"You're never going in here!" exclaimed Mabel in horror.
"Watch me," retorted Bertha, and she pushed open the door and went in, followed under protest by her sister.
"I want to see Mr. Jackson," she said clearly to the first man who stepped forward. And she looked calmly and haughtily at him and at the other men, who were staring and smiling. Mabel nervously retreated, half turning her back and standing by the door, and Bertha waited while her message was carried to the back part of the great room.
Tom appeared after some moments, astonished and none too pleased. His boyish face flushed slightly. He held his head high and responded to Bertha's greeting without a smile. Bertha on her part ad dressed him calmly, ignoring the looks and whispers of the other men in the place, though conscious that they were staring at her. She looked very pretty in her dark dress and gray fur collar—very dainty and striking.
"You didn't expect to see me here, I suppose?" she said, with a gay and defiant glance.
"No, I must say I didn't," Tom answered coldly.
"Well, why didn't you answer my letters? I've written to you twice. Did you get them?"
"Oh, yes, I got them."
"I don't think it was very polite of you, then, not to answer. I thought perhaps you were ill or something." And Bertha looked up reproachfully under her long lashes.
"No." In spite of himself Tom softened a little. She was a very pretty girl, no doubt of that, and she had certainly shown a real interest in him. And Tom was lonely. "I thought—it was no use answering," he said bluntly.
"Don't you ever want to see us again, then? Why not? What have I done to you?"
"Nothing," said Tom sullenly. "Only, I didn't feel like going to see you."
"Well, I think you're very silly. You'd better come. You've got the address, haven't you?"
"No, I tore up the letters."
"Well, you are—— Here, write it down. I'm going now, and I want you to promise to come to-morrow afternoon. I'll be at home all the afternoon. Will you come?"
"I don't know," said Tom, but he took down the address—which, for that matter, he already had in his pocket-book. "I don't see much use in it."
"Well, never mind. You can come because I asked you—and I think that's good enough reason."
And Bertha, calm in the assurance of her own charms, shot a sparkling look at him and turned to go.
Tom walked beside her to the door. He was embarrassed by her presence, yet he could not help a certain pride in it too, and a certain admiration of her audacity. He shook hands with Mabel, who looked nervous, and took for a moment Bertha's slim hand, in its fastidious white glove.
"All right, then, to-morrow," said Bertha imperiously.
"Yes" Tom smiled in spite of himself, fascinated by the life, color, and dash in her face and manner.
The two girls hurried for their train, Bertha turning a deaf ear to her sister's reproaches.
"I don't care," she cried, "I was bound to make him come. I won't be snubbed by Tom Jackson!"
"But Cecilia will be mad as a hornet when she——"
"Cecilia! I don't care. She isn't my boss. You seem to think she owns the whole family—and so does she. I have a right to do as I please."
"Well, I shan't tell her——"
"You can tell her if you want to."
"Is he coming to see you to-morrow?"
"Yes, he is."
They struggled up on the platform of a train, and the first stage of an uncomfortable journey began. The L was crowded, the bridge cars were jammed. Bertha in the crush used her sharp young elbows and Mabel pushed on in her wake. They had to stand all the way, however; nor was Bertha's pretty face of more avail in ousting any one of the row of seated men than Mabel's glance of scorn.