these Vernons--what right had she to bring her sordid story into their pleasant lives? Would they not suffer when it became known that they had harboured, though unwittingly, one on whose head was set the price of blood? What would be their judgment on her when they knew? These were the thoughts which racked her as, in the pink room, she sat, burning with shame, in the pretty frock, and hat, which Mrs Vernon had bought her with money which she had supposed to be Dorothy's, but which Dorothy herself knew was Mr Frazer's. Yesterday he himself had bought her clothes across the counter; to-day he had done it by deputy--yet she had not dared to tell his deputy the truth, lest she should play him false. Looked at from any point of view, could anything be more hideously false than her position? And without, in the sunshine, on the grass, amid the flowers, were crowds of happy people, with light hearts, clear consciences, who could look the whole world in the face, knowing they had done no wrong; and Frances--the friend whom she was using so ill--wanted to take her--a leper--into that unsuspecting throng. And in the end she yielded, and went--because that seemed to her to be the lesser evil. Frances made it so clear that if she did not go she should think that Dorothy no longer looked upon her as a friend. Rather than she should think that; since many of the people had gone, and the rest were about to go; with a sigh, whose meaning Frances wholly misunderstood, against her better judgment, she suffered herself to be persuaded to show herself outside. "All I want you to do," Frances had reiterated, over and over again, "is just to show yourself--if you love me, dear. No harm can possibly come of that." Which was all she knew. Dorothy was to learn that, in suffering herself to be persuaded--because she loved, she had played the coward again--more harm was to come of her just showing herself than she might ever be able to undo. Before quitting the pink room, Frances looked her over, as if she had been a picture, and, as an artist might have done, gave her here and there a finishing touch; expressing herself as only half satisfied with the ultimate result. "I've half-a-mind, do you know, young woman, to put a touch of colour on your cheeks--a dab on each of them; because, though I won't deny that pallor suits you, and even makes you fascinatingly interesting, I don't want folks to think that you've met with a tragic fate beneath this roof; or I shall have them nudging each other in the side; and wondering to what cruel treatment you've been subjected; and eyeing me askance, as if I must be the wretch. Don't you think you might manage to wear, when you notice that people are looking at you, what I have seen described, in print, as the ghost of a smile? It will anyhow let them know that you've as much as the ghost of a smile left in you."