But there was an immediate outcry at this from both her mother and sister. What nonsense! What a foolish idea! She mustn’t _think_ of such a thing! Just because Jeannette had given up her schooling and gone out into the world was no reason why both sisters should do it. There was not the slightest necessity. Alice’s place was at school and at home. Some one had to run the house; that was her contribution. She was fitted for it in every way: she was domestic, she liked to cook and she liked to clean.
A still more convincing argument that persuaded apologetic Alice that indeed she was quite wrong, and her mother and sister were entirely right, was voiced by Jeannette. Alice had much too retiring a nature to be a success in business. Assurance, self-assertiveness, even boldness were required, and Alice had none of these qualities. This was undeniably true; they all agreed to it. It seemed to be the last word on the matter; the topic was dismissed. Mrs. Sturgis went back to figuring on her bills; Jeannette to speculating about Roy Beardsley as she darned a tear in an old shirtwaist.
“I’ve often wondered,” ventured Alice after a considerable pause, “just what I should do,--how I could support myself if both of you happened to die. I mean--well, if Jeannette should go off somewhere,--to Europe, maybe,--and Mother should get sick, and I should have to....”
Her voice trailed off into silence before the astonished looks turned upon her.
“Well, upon my word ...” began Jeannette.
“Why, Alice dearie, what’s got into you?”
“You’re going to kill us both off,--is that it? I’m to run away and leave Mother sick on your hands?”
“I mean--well, I meant----” struggled the confused Alice.
“Dearie,” said her mother, “you won’t have to worry about the future. Mama’ll take care of you until some nice worthy young man comes along to claim you for his own.”
“You’ll be married, Allie dear, long before I will. You’re just the kind rich men fall madly in love with.”
But her sister’s thoughts were already upon a more engaging matter. She was busy once again with Roy Beardsley.
Spring burst upon New York with a warm breath and a rush of green. The gentle season folded the city lovingly in its arms. Everywhere were the evidences of its magic presence. The trees shimmered with green, shrubbery that peeped through iron fence grillings vigorously put forth new leaves, patches of grass in the areaways of brownstone houses turned freshly verdant, hotels upon the Avenue took on a brave and festal aspect with blooming flower-boxes in their windows, florist shops exhaled delicate perfumes of field flowers and turned gay the sidewalks before their doors with rows of potted loveliness, the Park became an elysian field of soft invitingness, with emerald glades and vistas of enchantment like tapestries of Fontainebleau. Spring was evident in women’s hats, in shop windows, in the crowded tops of lumbering three-horse buses, in the reappearance of hansom cabs, in open automobiles, in the smiling faces of men and women, in the elastic step of pedestrians. Spring had come to New York; the very walls of houses and pavements of the streets flashed back joyously the golden caressing radiance of the sun.