Anne O'Hagan

“ Hepzibah’s fifty and always was a very plain female. If you mean to reproach me for your—your singleness—I can only say that I am sorry we have never had the means, since you have been grown up, to mingle in the society where you might have married without—debasement.”
She paused. Antoinette colored uneasily and shyly. Her mother went on, half-musingly:
“After all, I don’t know. You are a woman of the most delicate sensibilities, Antoinette—of the most exquisite refinement. And men, even the best of them, are inherently—coarse. Have that person put off the grounds at once, please. ”

“ Over the stair rail came the imperious voice of her mother; “Have you sent Hepzibah out yet? That tobacco stench fills the rooms on the east side.”
“Right away, mother!” She hurried to the kitchen. The great clock ticked, the gray cat purred, the big, nickel lamp beamed brightly. But Hepzibah did not sit in her gingham-cushioned rocker.
“Of course. It’s Friday. She’s gone to prayer-meeting,” Antoinette reminded herself. “I’ll tell Nora myself.” ”

“ Of course the Websters did not know who lived in them—shoe-shop potentates, the big grocer, and such persons, her mother had said, dismissing them all. Into one, she knew—Hepzibah had told her—Senator Moran had lately moved. Strange how that gawky youth had forged ahead! He owned the mill in which he used to work, he owned the shop in which his father had died—they talked of him for governor. Why, she wondered, had he never married—some woman of his own class?
In one house the shades were up clear to the top of the windows, after the careless way of men in housekeeping. ”

“ A big, green-shaded lamp cast an all-revealing glare upon the contents of the room—rather tasteless, expensive things. Only the desk at which a man was bent in work had the look of fitness which use gives. ”

“ Webster, without waiting for Antoinette to define the olfactory crime. “Some one smoking a very vile tobacco in a nauseous pipe.” Antoinette’s eyes could not reflect the indignation of her mother’s; discreetly she veiled them.
“It can’t be Heppy,” pursued Mrs. Webster, whereat Antoinette laughed unguardedly. “Don’t be silly, Antoinette. Of course I mean that it is not Hepzibah who is entertaining a man at this hour of the night—” It was nearing nine o’clock.
“No, mother,” agreed Antoinette. “I don’t think it’s Heppy. Heppy”—her tone lacked bitterness, “is as old as I am.” ”