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dress. Now I have. Please don’t tell me it’s becoming, because it isn’t.”
    Oh, dear, Mrs. Flood thought. The wall that girl builds between herself and the rest of the world. Tactfully she said, “Why, it’s not bad, Allison. The Twenty-Eight Shop?”
    “Of course the Twenty-Eight Shop,” Allison said. “Then I went to Mother’s gifted, gifted little French woman for still another fitting on my beautiful, beautiful ball gown for my lovely, lovely coming out party.”
    Mrs. Flood’s forehead creased. She did not care to have Impor tant Things like expensive dresses and private debuts treated lightly. However, she was pleased to notice that Allison’s face was suddenly softening, that her eyes were almost beginning to sparkle.
    “And then, Floodie, I went to the Art Institute to see the new loan exhibit,” Allison said rapidly. “And it was so wonderful, Floodie, that I just stayed and stayed. I didn’t even have lunch. Come to think of it, I’m as hungry as a. . . .”
    “Oh, that’s nice, dear,” Mrs. Flood said loudly. Society People were supposed to have an interest in art and Mrs. Flood ap proved whenever Allison displayed a Correct reaction. “I haven’t been inside the Art Institute since. . . .” Then Mrs. Flood’s face went ashen. Her jaw sagged. “Didn’t have lunch! Allison Sargent! This was the day when the girls in the Debutante Cotillion were supposed to meet at. . . .”
    For a moment the two stared at one another aghast. “Oh, Floodie!” Allison said. “Isn’t that dreadful? I got in there withall those fantastic pictures and I forgot about the luncheon entirely. Don’t tell Mother. Please, Floodie.”
    “Allison Sargent, you simply amaze me. Here your mother breaks her neck to get you into the Cotillion. She plans this huge party for you—new dresses, that lovely little mink jacket. And all you do is get lost in some old art gallery and forget to show up for the debutante luncheon! Why, when I came out. . . .” Mrs. Flood had come out at a tea party held in the front and rear parlors of the Drexel Boulevard house of her father, a comfortably well-off wholesale grocer. The debutante had been presented to Mumsie’s old friends and to her classmates at the Stefan School, all of whom had known her for some years. Twining’s Lapsang Souchong, watercress sandwiches, little iced cakes and marzipan from Kranz’s had been served. But, owing to Mrs. Flood’s rather myopic hindsight, this event, like many another in her past, had taken on the luster of a court ball. Mrs. Flood was even now about to expound upon the wines, the dresses, the crowded dance programs of her Season. She did not. Once more she sensed the wall Allison had erected between them.
    “When you came out, you cared. I just don’t,” Allison said matter-of-factly. “Where’s Dicky?”
    “Dicky?” Mrs. Flood said blankly. Her mind was not attuned to rapid changes of topic. “Oh, Dicky, Why he’s in his studio. Writing of course.”
    “You mean in the tool shed?”
    “Allison! What is the matter with you? Your mother put I-don’t-know-how-much time and money into doing it over for him. Goodness, dear, I wouldn’t mind living in such a shed: kitchenette, bathroom, darling little bar. After all, your brother’sgot to have some place to write his books. I mean, a creative young novelist like. . . .”
    “Just what did you think of Dicky’s novel, Floodie?”
    “What? Dicky’s novel?” Mrs. Flood’s mind once more shifted gears. She really liked to get on a subject and stay on it. “Why . . . well, I mean . . . why, I thought it was splendid. Perfectly splendid.”
    “You didn’t even read it,” Allison said.
    “Now see here, young lady,” Mrs. Flood said indignantly, “I typed it. But that was nearly a year ago and having it handed to me in little dribs and drabs and Dicky’s penmanship so difficult. . . . And I’m b usy, Allison. Busy with your mother’s work. I don’t have time to