In her mood she was willing--anxious to do anything for any one. She felt no fatigue from her day's work. In the everlasting routine, it is the mind that makes the body tired. Her mind was lifted above the ordinary susceptibility to exhaustion. Janet stuck her needle into the material on her knee, and looked up searchingly. "What's the matter with you to-night?" she asked. "Nothing's the matter. Why?" "You're so officiously agreeable." Sally laughed. "You wanted to help Mrs. Hewson to make that mincemeat," Janet continued; "now you want to help me; and you were the soul of good-nature to Mr. Arthur. I'm sure he thinks you're going to accept him." "No, he doesn't." "How do you know?" "I told him after supper. He asked me to come out with him. I told him I couldn't marry him." Janet looked at her with curiosity, her eyes narrowed, judging the tone of the words rather than the words themselves, as if they were subject for her brush. "How did he take it?" she asked, gaining time for the maturity of her judgment. "I feel awfully sorry for him. He went out again when I came in." "Takes it badly, then?" "I'm afraid so." "You're sorry for him?" "Yes." "Why? You haven't thrown him over. He's taken his chance--he'll get over it. You're very soft-hearted. It's all in the game. You'll have to take your chance as well, and no one'll be sorry for you if you come worst out of it." Sally looked at her thoughtfully. "I don't believe you've got a heart, Janet," she said. "Don't you?" "Well, have you?" "It's not a weakness I care to confess to." "That's as good as admitting it." Janet was slowly driving to the point. In another moment, she knew that she would have the truth. "If having a heart means wasting one's sorrows on men like Mr. Arthur, I'm glad I haven't." Janet threw her work over the end of her bed, and looked up at Sally. "Who is he, Sally?" she asked abruptly. "What's his name? Where does he live?" "Who?" She tried to lift her eyebrows in surprise, but the blood rushed to her cheeks and burnt them red. "Who?" she repeated. "The man you're in love with. I asked you before if there was some one in the office; it's silly going on denying it. You'd never have told Mr. Arthur so soon. You'd have hung it on and hung it on for heaven knows how long. No, something's happened, happened to-day. Do you think I can't see? You're bubbling over with it, longing to tell me, and afraid I'll laugh at you." She rose to her feet and stuck her needle into the pincushion, then she put her arm round Sally's waist, and hugged her gently. "Poor, ridiculous, little Sally," she said, the first soft note that had entered her voice. "I wouldn't laugh at you. Don't you know you're made to be loved--not like me. Men hate thin, bony faces and scraggy hair; they want something they can pinch and pet. Lord! Imagine a man pinching my cheeks--it 'ud be like picking up a threepenny bit off a glass counter. Who is he, Sally?"