"Oh, yes. Why, Mr. Smith, there isn't a piece of furniture in this room that didn't cost more than the Pennocks'—I know, because I've been there. And my curtains are nicer, too, and my pictures, they're so much brighter—some of her oil paintings are terribly dull-looking. And my Bessie—did you notice her dress to-night? But, there! You didn't, of course. And if you had, you wouldn't have realized how expensive it was. What do you know about the cost of women's dresses?" she laughed archly. "But I don't mind telling you. It was one hundred and fifty dollars, a HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS, and it came from New York. I don't believe that white muslin thing of Gussie Pennock's cost fifty! You know Gussie?"

"I've seen her."

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"Yes, of course you have—with Fred. He used to go with her a lot. He goes with Pearl Gaylord more now. There, you can see them this minute, dancing together—the one in the low-cut, blue dress. Pretty, too, isn't she? Her father's worth a million, I suppose. I wonder how 'twould feel to be worth—a million." She spoke musingly, her eyes following the low-cut blue dress. "But, then, maybe I shall know, some time,—from Cousin Stanley, I mean," she explained smilingly, in answer to the question she thought she saw behind Mr. Smith's smoked glasses. "Oh, of course, there's nothing sure about it. But he gave us SOME, and if he's dead, of course, that other letter'll be opened in two years; and I don't see why he wouldn't give us the rest, as long as he'd shown he remembered he'd got us. Do you?"

"Well—er—as to that—" Mr. Smith hesitated. He had grown strangely red.

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"Well, there aren't any other relations so near, anyway, so I can't

help thinking about it, and wondering," she interposed. "And 'twould be

MILLIONS, not just one million. He's worth ten or twenty, they say.

But, then, we shall know in time."

"Oh, yes, you'll know—in time," agreed Mr. Smith with a smile, turning away as another guest came up to his hostess.

Mr. Smith's smile had been rather forced, and his face was still somewhat red as he picked his way through the crowded rooms to the place where he could see Frank Blaisdell standing alone, surveying the scene, his hands in his pockets.

"Well, Mr. Smith, this is some show, ain't it?' greeted the grocer, as

Mr. Smith approached.

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"It certainly is."

"Gee! I should say so—though I can't say I'm stuck on the brand,

myself. But, as for this money business, do you know? I'm as bad as

Flo. I can't sense it yet—that it's true. Gosh! Look at Hattie, now.