“You can’t,” he went on, “even play the piano as well as you did at fourteen; you can’t keep house, can you?” (And Leslie couldn’t) “And it seems to me,” he ended, “that you are content to be a pretty little parasite, and that disappoints me.” And his saying that sent her to Florence, and it started, she said, a ceaseless ache in her heart. And the ache grew too large to keep hidden, and Leslie confided in Viola; and Viola, in an effort to make Miss Meek realize that Leslie was away out of her natural placing, told Miss Meek that Leslie’s broken heart had led her to seek the solace of work in these humble surroundings. And Viola’s talking to Miss Meek was made by the fact that Viola hated sickness, couldn’t bear being with people who were sick, and--had to talk to some one. In that way the confidence became a triangle, and it ended as such triangles usually do--where it started--for Miss Meek came in to Leslie’s room and boomed out, “Oho, Miss Smarty! The Queen didn’t rule every one now, did she? And I’ll say jolly lucky for the Forbes man at that!” (Miss Meek dislikes Leslie) And when Viola appeared later, and said, from the doorway, “Darling, is there _anything_ I can do for you?” Leslie answered, “You can _try_ to keep your mouth shut!” and then I think they had a row, although Leslie says that people of her station _never_ row. It seemed like one to my simple nature, though, and during the course of it Leslie told Viola that her people were “nobodies” and that Mrs. Parrish hadn’t been “at all pleased” when she heard of Viola’s going, and that she, Leslie, now knew it was a “climber’s scheme”; and then Viola said that Leslie considered herself more important than she was, and that money wasn’t _anything_, and that now she knew that society was a “hollow sham,” since people like Leslie could masquerade as paragons or paramounts, or something like that--I sort of forget--in it. And then they both cried, and Viola slammed the door as she left, and that started _it_--which was a feud that lasted until Viola had a trouble that was big enough to make even Leslie forgive her the things that she had said, on that rainy day that backed so many unpleasant happenings. After I left Leslie, I went to my own room and stood by the window looking across the court. . . . There was no light in my artist’s window and there had been no sign of any life in the big room since the evening that followed my taking him home. Mr. Wake had sent me a little note that read: “Sam Deane is all right now. Will report on Saturday.” But that didn’t tell me whether long Sam Deane had gone on to another part of the country or to another land or was still in Florence, and, somehow, it didn’t seem to satisfy me.