"Oh, I couldn't, Oliver. No thanks. Please." I was glad to be alone again. I was glad of the protection of the crowds and the stream of strange faces. I sat in the corner of the car, where Oliver had left me, with a hard look about my mouth--at least I felt as if it were hard. There is no such thing as reward. Everything in life is unfair. Who was Miss Beresford? Would she wear coon-skin and velvet? Would Oliver buy her a stunning bunch of flowers to wear at her waist? Perhaps one of the actual dollars that I had earned would purchase a little flag for her to wave. Why should I pay for Miss Beresford's good time? Why should I have to work so hard, and wear ugly black? Why should I be going home--hungry and faint, and ashamed--while every one else was thronging in the other direction? It was while I was changing cars, standing alone on the edge of the sidewalk, taking in all I could see of the excitement, that my eyes fell on a stunning creature in a long luxurious fur coat. She wore a huge bunch of violets, as big as a cauliflower. A great big sweeping plume streamed out behind. She was bubbling with laughter, and the young man striding along beside her was laughing too. They were a lovely pair, both of them full of the joy of living. The girl (I looked twice to make sure) was some one I knew. The girl, as sure as I was alive, was no other than Sarah Platt--Sarah Platt, whom I had longed to know at boarding-school; Sarah Platt who had always scorned the very sight of Lucy Vars; Sarah Platt whom finally I had almost spat upon as contemptible and mean. A half an hour ago, Oliver had tried to hide me, and now I tried to hide myself. I slunk behind a telegraph-pole. Sarah swept by like a gilded chariot; I heard her voice; I smelled the odor of her violets. "She'll always be glorious and happy," I thought savagely. "She'll always have a good time. She'll marry that young man. I know she will. And I--I'll always be poor and miserable and forgotten."