"Here is the price of your ticket to New York," she said, counting out the exact fare. "You had better buy it at once." Jean did so. When she returned from the ticket-office her mother was smoothing the creases from a bank-note. "Did they supply you with any money?" she asked cautiously. "With two dollars." "Is that all?" "They paid my fare here." "How niggardly in a great state! I can spare you so little myself. But you will begin work at once?" "To-morrow morning." "Then ten dollars ought to answer until you draw your first earnings, if you are not extravagant." "I shan't stop at the Waldorf," promised Jean, grimly. She took the bill, as she had taken the money for the ticket, without thanks, saying only, "I will pay it back." Another blank silence fell. Mrs. Fanshaw stirred restively. "I hope that Jeffries girl can be depended on to meet you," she presently remarked. "I think she can." "It's certainly a convenience to know somebody at the start, but I don't feel that she is a very desirable associate, whatever Miss Archer thinks. You can drop her later, of course, whenever it seems best." "Drop her!" Mrs. Fanshaw jumped at the vehemence of the exclamation. "How abrupt you are! What I mean to say is that you will hardly want to keep up these reformatory acquaintances. If I were you I should make it a rule to recognize none of them you can by hook or crook avoid. Possibly this girl is superior to most of her class. I don't think you ever mentioned just why she was sent to the refuge?" Jean's eyes discharged an angry spark. "You're quite right," she retorted. "I never have." Mrs. Fanshaw was still waiting in becoming patience for Jean to repair this omission when her train was announced. They rose and faced each other awkwardly. "Well, good-by," said the elder woman, presenting her cheek. "Well, good-by," said Jean. She watched her mother into a car, and through successive windows traced her bustling progress to a seat. Mrs. Fanshaw found no leisure for a last glance outward, and Jean, by aid of certain sharply etched memories, divined that she was absorbed in repelling seat-mates. So occupied, she vanished. Jean could have cried with ease, but sternly denied herself the luxury. She yet retained something of her old boy-like intolerance of the tear-duct, though the refuge, acquainting her with nerves, had dulled the confident edge of her scorn. Tears, she now perceived, like tea, had uses for women other than purely physical.