If she could have gotten out she would, but she was not quite dressed, and could only sit and listen. She did not care so much for what was said of herself as of her belongings,—the silk dress she had thought so fine and her poor old trunk. The latter had been her father’s, carried by him on many a journey in the Western wilds. The silk was her mother’s wedding gown, and every time she wore it she seemed to feel the touch of her mother’s loving hands in its soft folds. The sleeves were small, she knew, for the pattern was scant, but just how small they were she never realized until now, or just how small she was herself, with everything pertaining to her. She heard Paul calling down the passage way, “Clarice, Clarice, are you ready?” and knew he was waiting to escort his fiancée home. “I hate her!” she said to herself. “To make fun of _me_ and she does it to him, too, no doubt.” This was the bitterest thought of all,—to be made light of and ridiculed to Paul Ralston, and Elithe cried harder than she ever remembered having cried before. That the bathing suit had belonged to Clarice she was sure, for on the lining of the belt were the initials, “C. P.” She could see them now on the floor where the wet garments lay, and she put her foot upon it, spurning it from her. “I’ll never wear it again!” she said, “nor the cap, either. It was in the same box. It was hers!” With the thought of the cap came a recollection of Mr. Pennington. He and Paul Ralston belonged to Clarice Percy’s world. They had been very kind to her. They liked her. They did not think her a _guy_ from the “wild and woolly” West, and their opinion was worth more than that of Clarice. There was some consolation in this, and, drying her eyes, she wrung the water from the dripping garments on the floor, rolled them in a newspaper and started for home. Her aunt had told her to ride both ways, as the walk was a long one from the bath houses to the cottage, and the car was ready to start as she came out of the building. In it were Paul and Clarice, the latter very fresh and cool looking in her thin summer muslin, a striking contrast to Elithe’s plain calico and linen collar. “I’ll not ride with her,” Elithe thought, shaking her head at the conductor, who was ringing the bell and inviting her to get in. It was hot and dusty, but she did not mind it as she hurried along, smarting from the indignity she had suffered and anxious to be rid of the detested bundle she carried. What she should do with it she did not know until she reached the cottage. Miss Hansford was ironing with a hotter fire than usual, and had just lifted a cover from the stove, when Elithe burst in like a whirlwind. Her eyes were flashing, her face was crimson, with perspiration trickling down it in streams, and she looked more like a little fury than the usual mild and placid Elithe. “What is the matter?” Miss Hansford asked, but Elithe did not reply.