She looked a little hurt. "You don't like it?" she said. "Do you?" I snapped back. After a time I had recourse to the old argument that it didn't look well; that it wasn't fair to Julian. But she had been expecting this. "My dear Walter," she answered, "you must try to be more consistent. In Paris you told me that I must cease to regulate my life by Julian. You were quite right. This place pleases me, and I don't intend to go to a hotel, which I hate, or to take a house, which is a bother, in order to soothe Julian's feelings. I have begun to lead my life to suit myself." The worst of it was, I could think of no answer. A few evenings afterward we dined at the same house. Anne arrived with a scarf on her head, under the escort of a maid. She had come in a trolley car. Nobody's business but her own, perhaps, if she would have allowed it to remain so, but when she got up to go, and other people were talking of their motors' being late, Anne had to say: "Mine is never late; it goes past the corner every minute." I could almost hear a sigh, "Poor angel!" go round the room. The next thing that happened was that Julian sent for me. He was in what we used to call in the nursery "a state." "What's this I hear about Anne's being hard up?" he said. "Living in a nasty flat, and going out to dinner in the cars?" And he wouldn't listen to an explanation. "She must take more; she must be made to take more." I had one of my most unfortunate inspirations. I thought I saw an opportunity for Julian to make an impression. "I don't think she would listen to me," I said. "Why don't you get Mr. Granger to speak to her?" The idea appealed to Julian. He admired Mr. Granger, and remembered that he and Anne had been friends. Whereas I thought, of course, that Mr. Granger would thus be made to see that the fault, if there were a fault, was not of Julian's generosity. Stupidly enough I failed to see that if Julian's offer was graceful Anne's gesture of refusal would be upon a splendid scale. And it must have been very large, indeed, to stir old Granger as it did. He told me there had been tears in his eyes while she spoke of her husband's kindness. Kindness! He could not but compare her surroundings with the little house, all geraniums and muslin curtains, in which the new Mrs. Chelmsford was lodged. Anne had refused, of course. In the circumstances she could not accept. She said she had quite enough for a single woman. The phrase struck Granger as almost unbearably pathetic. One day I noticed the loving cup--which was always on Anne's table, which was admired by everyone who came to the apartment, and was said to recall her, herself, so pure and graceful and perfect--one day the loving cup was gone. I was so surprised when my eye fell on its vacant place that I blurted out: "Goodness, Anne, where's your cup?"