"Madam, when you entered the room I was of your way of thinking. Book after book that I read"--Miss Bunce blushed at this point-- "has displayed before me the delights of that quick artistic life that you glory in following. I have eaten out my heart in longing. But now that I see how it coarsens a women--for it _is_ coarse to sneer at age, in spite of all you may say about uselessness being no better for being protracted over much time--" "You are partly right," Joanna interrupted, "although you mistake the accident for the essence. I am only coarse when confronted by respectability. Nevertheless, I am glad if I reconcile you to your lot." "But the point is," insisted Miss Bunce, "that a lady _never_ forgets herself." "And you would argue that the being liable to forget myself is only another development of that very character by virtue of which I follow Art. Ah, well"--she nodded towards her stepsisters--"I ask you why they and I should be daughters of one father?" She rose and stepped to the piano in the corner. It was a tall Collard, shaped, above the key-board, like a cupboard. After touching the notes softly, to be sure they were in tune, she drew over a chair, and fell to playing Schumann's "_Warum?_" very tenderly. It was a tinkling instrument, but perhaps her playing gained pathos thereby, before such an audience. At the end she turned round: there were tears in her eyes. "You used to play the 'Osborne Quadrilles' very nicely," observed Miss Susan, suddenly. "Your playing has become very--very--" "Disreputable," suggested Joanna. "Well, not exactly. I was going to say 'unintelligible.'" "It's the same thing." She rose, kissed her step-sisters, and walked out of the room without a look at Miss Bunce. "Poor Joanna!" observed Miss Susan, after a minute's silence. "She has aged very much. I really must begin to think of my end." Outside, in the street, Joanna's husband was waiting for her--a dark, ragged man, with a five-act expression of face. "Don't talk to me for a while," she begged. "I have been among ghosts." "Ghosts?" "They were much too dull to be real: and yet--Oh, Jack, I feel glad for the first time that our child was taken! I might have left him there." "What shall we sing?" asked the man, turning his face away. "Something pious," Joanna answered with an ugly little laugh, "since we want our dinner. The public has still enough honesty left to pity piety." She stepped out into the middle of the street, facing her sisters' windows, and began, the man's voice chiming in at the third bar-- "In the sweet by-and-bye We shall meet on that be-yeautiful shore." . . . PSYCHE. "_Among these million Suns how shall the strayed Soul find her way back to earth?_"