Like Mrs. Croly, she laughed at the question as the three of them sat down. “I do very well, thank you.”

“Lady Margaret is worried I’ll write something scandalous about her,” Mrs. Croly said.

“In one of Jenny June’s columns? Clearly she’s not familiar with them. Jane—Jenny June to her many, many readers—writes gossip of the elevating and informative kind. You know, how to climb a ladder without showing your ankles or the polite way to blow your nose in public.”

“I do not!” Mrs. Croly said, laughing. “Honestly, Mary Louise, just because I’m not permitted to write on any serious, manly subjects doesn’t mean that what I do write is pointless.”

“You know I’m only teasing you,” Miss Booth said, tapping Mrs. Croly’s arm affectionately. “Jane here,” she said, turning to Margaret, “has written a best-selling cookery book and is a past master at writing about serious subjects under the guise of feminine trivia.”

“Thank you, but I won’t deny that my columns for New York World and Sunday Times and Noah’s Weekly Messenger are frivolous. ‘Parlour and Side-Walk Gossip,’” Mrs. Croly added, rolling her eyes. “Now never mind me, Lady Margaret. Is it true that you are taking a house south of Thirteenth?”

“This is not an interview, Jane,” Miss Booth said sharply. “Tell us how you are enjoying New York, Lady Margaret.”

“I would say it’s the most exciting city I’ve ever visited, but since I’m not very well-travelled, that is hardly saying much.”

“What appeals to you most?” Mrs. Croly asked.

“Well, this, I suppose,” Margaret replied. “Shopping alone. Sitting in a parlour in a department store talking to two women with careers. None of this would have happened in London, where one must be introduced by another acquaintance, so that one never meets anyone new—or at least, one is not supposed to.”

“Do I sense that you broke a few rules, Lady Margaret?” Mrs. Croly leaned forward. “Do tell.”

But once again, Miss Booth intervened. “So women have more freedom in New York, you think? And yet Jane and I were just talking about how sick and tired we are of being told to be happy with our lot. Don’t stretch your tiny little minds to the limit by writing about politics or science, just tell us what colour is in this season and whether the crinoline is going to give way to the bustle.”

“I wish it would,” Margaret said. “If ever there was a test of woman’s ingenuity, it is getting in and out of a carriage in a crinoline.”

“You should try riding a streetcar in one. Or perhaps you have?” Mrs. Croly said.

“Not yet, but when I do, I shall note down my thoughts and send them to you for your column,” Margaret retorted.

“Ha! She has your measure, Jane.”