Yet it was a blithe world outside, the fog and gloom of a November rain notwithstanding. Even the wet glisten of the mire seemed cheery. A hundred trivialities, unheeded by her companion, absorbed her unjaded eyes. The red and green liquids of a druggist's window lured her as in childhood; then the glitter of a toy-shop enticed, or the ruddy invitation of a forge. Station and train were each a mine of entertainment. The ticket-buying was an event of the first magnitude; the slot-machines, the time-tables, the news-stands, the advertisements, all the prosaic human spectacle had the freshness of novelty. She noted that women's sleeves had a fullness of which the little tailor-shop in the refuge was but dimly aware; that men's hats curled closer at the brim; that the trainmen wore a different uniform; that one rural depot or another had received a coat of paint. Mrs. Fanshaw was in waiting. "There's a train back to the Springs in twenty minutes," she announced briskly, after a preoccupied dab at Jean's cheek, "and under the circumstances"--she was always under circumstances--"I know you won't mind if I take it instead of waiting till your own goes out. What with presents arriving, the dressmaker, and the snobbish behavior of Harry's family, I expect as it is to find Amelia on the edge of nervous prostration. Every minute is precious, we're so rushed. In fact, I could not find time to pack a single stitch for you to take to New York. Anyhow, I understood from your last letter that the refuge would fit you out with the necessaries, which is certainly a help at this time when I'm paying out right and left for Amelia. Why," she wound up suddenly, "your suit is actually tailor-made!" "Yes," said Jean. "Excellent material, too," commented Mrs. Fanshaw, fingering the texture. "Does every girl fare as well?" "The low-grade girls get no jackets, only capes; and their material isn't so good." "Then you're high grade! You never wrote me." "I did not think it would interest Shawnee Springs." Mrs. Fanshaw looked aggrieved. "You are a strange child," she complained; "so secretive, so self-centered. I suppose your suit was made in the refuge?" "Yes." "By one of the inmates?" "By one of the inmates--myself." "Strange child!" said her mother again. "Strange child!" Linked by nothing save a distasteful past, they sat together for an interval in constrained silence. Even at their friendliest, mother and daughter had lacked conversational small change. Presently Mrs. Fanshaw's roving eye encountered the dial of a train-indicator and brightened. "The Shawnee Springs accommodation is on time for once," she announced. Jean responded with sincerity that she was glad. That her own train was as plainly registered an hour late, with the equally obvious consequence that she must arrive after nightfall in a strange city, was unimportant. Mrs. Fanshaw opened her hand-bag.