“Pooh! States! That isn’t the world.”

“What is, then?”

Maxine threw out her arms, sprinkling dish-water from her dripping finger tips with the wide-flung gesture. “Cairo! Zanzibar! Brazil! Trinidad! Seville — uh — Samar — Samarkand.”

“Where’s Samarkand?”

“I don’t know. And I’m going to see it all some day. And the different people. The people that travel, and know about what kind of wine with the roast and the fish. You know — the kind in the novels that say, ‘You’ve chilled this sauterne too much, Bemish.”

“And when you do see all these places,” retorted Mrs. Pardee, with the bitterness born of long years of experience,