“Oh, I won’t, indeed I won’t.” She slipped her book into her muff and rose to go. “You don’t know how much obliged I am. I’ll do as much for you some day. If ever you want to be written up, let me know.” “I never should want to be in the newspapers.” “Oh, there’s no telling. You haven’t had a taste of it yet. Well, good-morning,” and she went out. Patience leaned back in her luxurious chair, and watched the old woman polish the pretty nails. Rosita babbled, and Patience watched her face closely. Its colouring was as fresh, its contours as perfect as ever, but there was a faint touch of hardness somewhere, and the eyes held more secrets than they had two years ago. They were the eyes of the wanton. For a moment Patience forgot her surroundings. Her mind flew back to the old days, to the rickety buggy with the two contented innocent little girls, then, by a natural deflection, to her tower and her dreams. She longed passionately for the old Mission, and wondered if Solomon were still alive. Then she thought of Bourke, and came back to the present with a shudder. The woman had gone. “What is the matter?” asked Rosita. “Is it true—what the men say—that you are not happy with your husband?” “I hate him,” said Patience. “Why don’t you get a divorce?” “I have no grounds.” “No grounds? Fancy a wife having no grounds!” “I have not the slightest doubt of his faith.” “Send him to me.” “Oh, Rosita! How can you be so coarse?” “No-o-o-o! You are my old friend. I would do anything for you. Think it over, Patita _mia_.” “I do not need to think it over. I would never do so vile a thing as that. Have you no refinement left?” “What earthly use would I have for refinement? Patita, you are such a baby, and you always had ideals and things. Have you got them yet?” “No,” said Patience, rising abruptly. “I haven’t. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, Patita dear,” said Rosita, with unruffled good humour, “and if ever you are in trouble come here and I will take you in. I would even lend you money, and if you knew me you would know how much I loved you to do that. There is not another person living I would give a five cent piece to.” * * * * * When Patience reached the sidewalk she filled her lungs with fresh air, then looked at her watch. It was only a half after twelve, and she decided to call on Mary Gallatin. She had never yet paid that charming young fashionette the promised morning call, although she had attended one or two of her afternoon receptions. She told the coachman to drive to the house in Fifty-seventh Street, then threw herself back on the seat and laughed, a long unpleasant laugh. She tapped first one foot and then the other, with increasing nervousness.