“They are paid,” Mrs. North said. “Don’t be distressed about them and many others—lace-handkerchiefs, shoes, all sorts of things. Don’t tell her. She would think I had taken a liberty or committed a solecism,” and she made a little wry face. “But what I really wanted to see you about, Mrs. Hibbert, was Madame Celestine’s bill. I am afraid I can’t manage that all by myself; it is too long. Madame Celestine, of course, is sweetly miserable, for she thinks the old lady has vanished into space. She came to me yesterday. It seems that she went to you a few days ago, but you were out, and she was glad of it when she discovered that Mrs. Baines was your aunt, for she doesn’t want to offend you. She came to me again to-day. She is very miserable. I believe it will turn her hair grey. Oh, it is too funny.” “I don’t think it is at all funny.” “But indeed it is, for I don’t believe Mrs. Baines will ever be able to pay the fifteen pounds; in fact, we know that she won’t. Probably it is worrying her a good deal. I have been wondering whether something could not be done; if you and I, for instance, were to arrange it between us.” “You are very good, Mrs. North,” Florence said, against her will. “Oh no, but I am sorry for her, and it vexes and worries me to think that she is annoyed. I want to get rid of that vexation, and will pay something to do so. That is what most generosity comes to,” Mrs. North went on, with mock cynicism, “the purchase of a pleasant feeling for one’s self, or the getting rid of an unpleasant one. There is little really unselfish goodness in the world, and when one meets it, as a rule, it isn’t charming, it isn’t fascinating; one feels that one would rather be without it.” She rose as she spoke. “Well,” she asked, “what shall we do? I’ll pay one half of the old lady’s bill if you will pay the other half.” “You are very good,” Florence repeated, wonderingly. “No; but I expect you are,” and Mrs. North showed two rows of little white teeth. “I should think you are a model of virtue,” she added, with an almost childlike air of frankness, which made it impossible to take offence at her words, though Florence felt that at best she was only regarded as the possessor of a quality that just before her visitor had denounced. “Why,” she asked, smiling against her will, “do I look like a model of virtue?” “Oh yes, you are almost Madonna-like,” Mrs. North said, with a sigh. “I wish I were like you, only—only I think I should get very tired of myself. I get tired now; till a reaction comes. But a reaction to the purely good must be tame at best.” “You are very clever,” Florence said, almost without knowing it, and shrinking from her again.