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had taken Edmund Mandeville for a gentleman.
    The distinction between the gentry, who lived on rents from great estates, and the new middle class, whose wealth came from mines and manufacturing, was perfectly clear in the minds of the parties concerned. The two classes might meet in the line of business, but they did not care to mix socially. The absurd fluttering produced at a middle-class dinner by the presence of even a minor sprig of the nobility and the insupportable triumph of the hostess who had succeeded in gaining such a prize had been caricatured, but not greatly exaggerated, by contemporary writers. Education, good manners, wealth had nothing to do with it; one drop of decadent blue blood made its possessor superior in the eyes of everyone except, perhaps, God—and the aristocratic snob was convinced that He reserved the highest clouds in Paradise for the nobility.
    When Megan had first met her prospective employer, in the offices of Miss Jordan's Superior Agency, everything about him had spoken of noble birth—his graceful figure, his fine clothing, his lazy, soft voice. The pallor of recent illness made his waving brown hair appear darker, and the military mustache and long sideburns set off features of aristocratic symmetry, as finely chiseled as his sister's were blunt and commonplace.
    Megan dismissed this disloyal thought. Miss Mandeville was a true lady, even if she did look like a housemaid. But what on earth did she have to do with the mill? The only women who went to such places were the unfortunates who operated the machines—women of the poorest class, forced to work because their husbands were unable or unwilling to support their families.
    Lina was still staring. Her eyes were as big and blue and curious as those of the Siamese cat.
    Ta-chin was the only member of the household Megan did not care for. She was fond of cats generally, and still mourned the loss of Miss Prissy, a beloved white Persian who had been left with a landlady in Paris when her father had been forced to make one of his hasty exits from a city full of gentlemen who were anxious to interview him about his debts. But Ta-chin was not an ordinary cat. She made no secret of her utter indifference to Megan, and her hoarse comments sounded unnervingly like speech in some unknown tongue. The conventional theory that dogs are more inclined than cats to devote their love to a single person is far from accurate; most dogs are genial, undiscriminating idiots, slobberingly grateful for attention from any passerby. Ta-chin was truly a one-person cat. Her infatuation with Jane was almost abject; she would squat for hours at that small lady's feet, staring at her adoringly. She tolerated the servants and Lina, and was, in fact, more patient with hugs and squeezes than one might have expected, but she looked upon lesser persons with a cool curiosity that held a certain hint of criticism. Lina's eyes had the same look now.
    Megan frowned at her. "Eat your breakfast," she said sharply.
    Lina's lower lip went out in an alarming manner, but she did as she was told. Immediately Megan felt guilty. She could not imagine why she had been so brusque. It would be a mistake to turn the child against her. Her position depended to a great extent on Lina's fondness.
    "Porridge is not my favorite breakfast either," she confided, in a conspiratorial whisper. "But we must eat every bite or Lizzie will scold us."
    Lina was easily coaxed. They made a game of it, taking alternate bites, and finished the despised porridge in record time.
    Megan's curiosity about Jane and the mill was not so easily dispelled. Ordinarily she did not like to encourage servants to gossip, but—she told herself—Lizzie was not an ordinary servant, and the situation was certainly out of the ordinary.
    Lizzie was delighted to explain. "Why, miss, she's at the mill all day and every day, since her poor papa died—and even before, when he was too sick to tend to business. I don't know how