She had put on her coat and hat, to disguise the fact, she explained, that she was one of Shipley’s hired hands. She was a tall blonde, with a wealth of honey-colored hair, china blue eyes and a dear brilliant complexion. Grace’s admiration, dating from high school days, quickened as she noted the girl’s ease and the somewhat scornful air with which she inspected the lunch card. Irene’s father was a locomotive engineer and the family lived in a comfortable house on a pleasant street in the East End, not far from the railway shops. Irene had brothers and sisters, but they did not share her good looks or her social qualities. Irene met the rest of the world with a lofty condescension which fell short of being insufferable only by reason of her good humor. Selfishness with Irene was almost a virtue, it manifested itself so candidly. She had no intention of being bored, or of putting herself out. Ugliness and clumsiness were repugnant to her. Disagreeable things did not trouble her because she had schooled herself not to see them. She was clever, adroit, resourceful, and wise with the astonishing worldly-wisdom that is the heritage of the children of the Twentieth Century. In school she had been a fair scholar but the grand manner and a ready wit had assisted her even there. When puzzled by Irene’s ability to dress better than most of her girl companions in the high school, Grace had been impressed by the revelation that Irene made her own clothes and could retouch last year’s hat with a genius that brought it into conformity with the latest and most exclusive designs. “You still have the same queenly look, Irene,” Grace remarked. “Queenly nothing! You’re nearly as tall as I am and I haven’t a thing on you when it comes to hauteur. I suppose the Lord made me tall and gave me square shoulders just to hang clothes on for women with money to look at. I wish I had your black hair. Being a blonde is an awful handicap if you’re doomed to work for a living. And a complexion like mine, which is called good by experts, is a nuisance. I’ve refused an offer about once a month to go on the road selling and demonstrating cosmetics. Can you see me?” “I supposed you’d be married before this, Irene. You must have had loads of chances.” “Chances but not opportunities,” replied Irene with a shrug. “Don’t tell me you’ve quit college to get married; it’s not a professor, I hope! I’d hate to see you sacrificing yourself in the noble cause of education.” “Nothing like that. I quit because we’re broke--father couldn’t afford to keep me in college any longer. Some one had to drop out and as Roy has only a year more in the law school it seemed better for him to keep on.” “Roy?” Irene repeated the name languidly as though Roy were a negligible figure in the affairs of the Durlands. “My brother,” said Grace.