Among those who admitted this was Mrs. Toomey, who lingered at the breakfast table the morning after Kate's return, thinking of many things while she absently clinked her spoon against the edge of her cup. Jap had just left after an animated argument as to whether policy demanded the entertainment at dinner of the barber and his wife, who contemplated buying a sewing machine of a make for which Toomey was now the agent. Recalling the time when they had refused invitations right and left because there was no one in Prouty whom they had cared to know, a smile of bitterness came to her lips. Since then, she had eaten the pie of humbleness to the last crumb. She had become a self-acknowledged toady, a spineless sycophant, and for what? For the privilege of being invited to teas, bridge whists, of being sure of a place in the local social life. This morning she was doubting the wisdom of her choice. Kate's sincere unswerving friendship might have been compensation enough for the anguish of being "left out." Yet she could not exactly blame herself, for who could have foreseen that things would turn out like this? It was not remorse that Mrs. Toomey felt, but regret for not arraying herself on the side which ultimately would have brought her the most benefits. Mrs. Toomey never had been able to gather anything from Kate's expression upon the few occasions that they had met since the girl had called her a "Judas Iscariot" and left the house, but she recalled that at each later encounter she had experienced the same sense of uneasiness. Was the feeling due to a guilty conscience, she asked herself, or was an implacable hatred that was biding its time, concealed by Kate's enigmatic face? Mrs. Toomey concluded that this theory was farfetched--that it was not human nature to retain resentment for even a real wrong through such a lapse of years. Time took the keen edge off of everything, including the bitterest enemy. And yet, in spite of this comforting reassurance, there remained an inexplicable feeling of disquietude when she thought of the woman to whom she had proved an ingrate and a cowardly friend. While Mrs. Toomey's mind was thus engrossingly occupied, Jasper was having his own troubles in the Security State Bank. Stimulated by three cups of strong coffee, Toomey had left the house full of hustle and hope--a state which was apt to continue until about eleven o'clock when the effect wore off, and then he might be expected home with another iridescent bubble punctured, and himself gloomy to the point of suicide. To-day Toomey's feet as a means of locomotion seemed all too slow as he covered the distance intervening between his home and the bank. His black eyes were brilliant with caffeine and the excitement attendant upon a large and highly satisfactory idea which had come to him in the night.