"You’re a devil yourself!" he had answered. "A young devil, and a dangerous one, too. You could teach me a trick or two, I dare say!" Then she had thrown a piece of bread at him, and he had sprung up and smothered her in a napkin, almost upsetting her chair backward, and she had given his necktie a terrific pull. She did so like this sort of thing! She had a familiar and delightful feeling now toward Polly, such as she had so often felt toward teachers at school and foremen in factories--that she had something up her sleeve, that she was slyly outraging authority. "Come in!" said Polly. She was still in bed, her breakfast, untouched, on a tray beside her. She looked stale, broken, weary in body and in spirit, miserably inferior to the sparkling girl who stood waiting for her orders. "Good morning! Sit down," she said, politely enough. She could say nothing further. Weary from a sleepless night, sick with grief and longing, lonely as a traveler stranded on a desolate shore, it seemed to her impossible to communicate with any one about her. She could think of no words that they would comprehend, no answer from them that would give her any possible solace. She seemed to Angelica a sallow, listless woman of forty, who persisted very selfishly in staring out of the window and preserving a tedious silence. She had no faintest idea of that anguish of a fine and strong soul. "Would you mind----” said Polly, suddenly. "There’s a little leather book in my desk, and a fountain pen. I’d like to write a little." Angelica jumped up and brought them to her with alacrity. She felt very obliging this morning. "Anything else I can do?" she asked cheerfully. "No, thanks. It’s my diary. It’s just seven weeks ago that my child died." She spoke quietly, but her face had assumed an odd, drawn look. "Oh, Lord!" thought Angelica. "Now I suppose there’ll be a scene. And me feeling so happy!" But there was no ‘scene,’ not even a tear. Polly had long ago got past that consolation. She put down her little book. "Will you go and ask Mrs. Russell, please, when she wants to use the car? I think I’ll go out this afternoon." Angelica sped off, glad to be released from this terrible ennui, and knocked upon Mrs. Russell’s door. She found her engaged in a surprising occupation. She was carefully rouging her cheeks--that tough, weather-beaten, brown skin! Her hair was carefully dressed, and she wore a handsome embroidered white linen frock. She was tall and straight, with good shoulders and a fine, free play of limb. From the back she wasn’t bad, she looked like a muscular and athletic young woman until she turned and one saw her face. With the rouge and the blackened eyebrows, it had an indescribably repulsive look of dissipation; it was as if a man had rouged and bedecked himself. "Well!" she said. "How do I look?" "All right," said Angelica dubiously.