St. Peter wiped his moist forehead. He was suffering with her, as if she had been in physical anguish.
“We can’t, dear, we can’t, in this world, let ourselves think of things—of comparisons—like that. We are all too susceptible to ugly suggestions. If Rosamond has a grievance, it’s because you’ve been untactful about Louie.”
“Even if I have, why should she be so revengeful? Does she think nobody else calls him a Jew? Does she think it’s a secret? I don’t mind being called a Gentile.”
“It’s all in the way it’s done, you know, Kitty. And you’ve shown that you were a little bored with all their new things, now haven’t you?”
“I’ve shown that I don’t like the way she overdresses, I suppose. I would never have believed that Rosie could do anything in such bad taste. While she is here among her old friends, she ought to dress like the rest of us.”
“But doesn’t she? It seems to me her things look about like yours.”
“Oh, Father, you’re so simple! And Mother is very careful not to enlighten you. We go to the Guild to sew for the Mission fund, and Rosie comes in a handmade French frock that cost more than all our dresses put together.”
“But if hers are no prettier, what does it matter how much they cost?”
He was watching Kathleen fearfully. Her pale skin had taken on a greenish tinge—there was no doubt about it. He had never happened to see that change occur in a face before, and he had never realized to what an ugly, painful transformation the common phrase “green with envy” referred.
“Oh, foolish, they are prettier, though you may not see it. It’s not just the clothes”—she looked at him intently, and her eyes, in their reddened