"That’s the point. You see, it would never do to bring you in as a companion. She says she couldn’t stand a hired companion, when she’s in such a state. She doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve got to have some sort of relief. That’s why I’m paying you out of my own pocket; but it won’t do to let her know. That’s why I’ve given you that little guest-room. I want to tell her you’re the daughter of an old friend, and that you’ve come to visit me--until she gets used to you. Do you see?" "Yes," said Angelica. "But do you think she’ll believe it?" "Don’t worry, my dear. I understand Polly. All you’ve got to do is to sit with her and listen to her if she wants to talk. She won’t ask you any questions; she’s too indifferent. That’s really the trouble with the poor girl--she’s so self-centered. She lies there, brooding. Of course, it’s hard for her; but after all, we all have our troubles to bear. Now, to-morrow morning I’ll take you in there and introduce you to her, and you must----” She stopped abruptly and yawned. It was a disconcerting habit she had, as if her incredibly frivolous mind wore itself down by its own erratic movements. "Now read, won’t you?" she asked. Angelica began, took up the book, and plunged into it, concentrating her mind fiercely on the words alone. She had no idea what the book was about; what she read conveyed no impression to her mind. Her sole thought was not to expose herself, not to make mistakes, and of course she did. There came words upon words which she couldn’t pronounce. "What?" Mrs. Russell would ask with an amused frown, and Angelica would have to stop and spell the word and be corrected. For days they stayed in her head to torment her, those words, those sounds which she repeated after Mrs. Russell. They danced before her eyes, rang in her ears at night. It was a horrible hour. Angelica couldn’t make any sort of counter-attack, couldn’t assert herself, could only go on, and make outrageous blunders, and humbly repeat the corrections. Came a long French phrase, not one word of which she could manage. She stopped short. "Go on!" said Mrs. Russell. Angelica flew at the thing, desperately and recklessly. Mrs. Russell couldn’t stop laughing. She lay back on her pillows and covered her eyes with her hands. "Oh, my dear! That’s really---- You mustn’t mind my laughing, will you?" "I don’t," said Angelica. But she did--she hated and dreaded that laughter with all her heart. If she had planned it carefully, Mrs. Russell couldn’t have devised a better method for subduing her. Yet all her recollections of this nightmare of shame and distress were permeated by the mystic atmosphere that so enthralled her--the rose-shaded light, the nonchalant, red-haired lady in bed, the sweet smoke of the cigarettes; all the softness, the seclusion, the luxury, all the amazing fascination of a dream come true--except, of course, that she should have been in Mrs. Russell’s place. III