"How splendid of you!" said Janet enthusiastically, with no suggestion whatever in her tone that Hilda's situation was odd, or of dubious propriety, or aught but enviable. But Hilda surveyed her with secret envy, transient yet real. In the half-dozen years that had passed since the days of the dancing-class, Janet had matured. She was now the finished product. She had the charm of her sex, and she depended on it. She had grace and an overflowing goodness. She had a smooth ease of manner. She was dignified. And, with her furs, and her expensive veil protecting those bright apple-red cheeks, and all the studied minor details of her costume, she was admirably and luxuriously attired. She was the usual, as distinguished from the unusual, woman, brought to perfection. She represented no revolt against established custom. Doubts and longings did not beset her. She was content within her sphere: a destined queen of the home. And yet she could not be accused of being old-fashioned. None would dare to despise her. She was what Hilda could never be, had never long desired to be. She was what Hilda had definitely renounced being. And there stood Hilda, immature, graceless, harsh, inelegant, dowdy, holding the letter between her inky fingers, in the midst of all that hard masculine mess,--and a part of it, the blindly devoted subaltern, who could expect none of the ritual of homage given to women, who must sit and work and stand and strain and say 'yes,' and pretend stiffly that she was a sound, serviceable, thick-skinned imitation man among men! If Hilda had been a valkyrie or a saint she might have felt no envy and no pang. But she was a woman. Self-pity shot through her tremendous pride; and the lancinating stab made her inattentive even to her curiosity concerning the purpose of Janet's visit. III "I came to see Mr. Cannon," said Janet. "The housekeeper downstairs told me he was here somewhere." "He's engaged," answered Hilda in a low voice, with the devotee's instinct to surround her superior with mystery. "Oh!" murmured Janet, checked. Hilda wondered furiously what she could be wanting with Mr. Cannon. Janet recommenced: "It's really about Miss Gailey, you know." "Yes--what?" Hilda nodded eagerly, speaking in a tone still lower and more careful. Janet dropped her voice accordingly: "She's Mr. Cannon's sister, of course?" "Half-sister." "I mean. I've just come away from seeing her." She hesitated. "I only heard by accident. So I came over with father. He had to come to a meeting of the Guardians here, or something. They've quarrelled, haven't they?" "Who? Miss Gailey and Mr. Cannon? Well, you see, she quarrels with every one." Hilda appeared to defend Mr. Cannon. "I'm afraid she does, poor thing!" "She quarrelled with mother." "Really! when was that?" "Oh! Years and years ago! I don't know when. I was always surprised mother let me go to the class." "It was very nice of your mother," said Janet, appreciative.