"Well," said Calhoun, "it's not my affair; if you choose to take pity on him, well and good; if it were my business I'd give him a cold bath, that might stop him from doing a thing like that again. I'll say nothing." Though Miss Pinckney was in ignorance of the affair she was strangely silent during the drive home and when Phyl went to her room to bid her good night, she found her in tears, a very rare occurrence with Miss Pinckney. She was seated in an armchair crying and Phyl knelt down beside her and took her hand. Then it all came out. "I had hoped and hoped and hoped for him, goodness knows he has been my one thought, and now he has thrown himself away. Richard is engaged to Frances Rhett. He told me so to-night--well, there, it's all ended, there's no hope anywhere, she'll never let him go, and she'll have Vernons when I'm gone. She picked him out from all the other men--why?-- Why, because he's the best of the lot for money and position. Care about him! She cares no more for him than I do for old Darius. I'm sure I don't know why this trouble should have fallen on me. I suppose I have committed some sin or another though I can't tell what. I've tried to live blameless and there's others that haven't, yet they seem to prosper and get their wishes--and there's no use telling me to be resigned," finished she with a snap and as if addressing some viewless mentor. "I can't--and what's more I won't. Never will I resign myself to wickedness, and stupidity is wickedness, not even a decent, honest wickedness, but a crazy, sap-headed sort of wickedness, same as influenza isn't a disease but just an ailment that kills you all the same." Phyl, kneeling beside Miss Pinckney, had turned deathly white. Only half an hour ago when the little conference with Calhoun had been concluded, Richard Pinckney had taken her hand. His words were still ringing in her ears: "You saved my life. I can't say what I feel, at least not now." He had looked straight into her eyes, and now half an hour later--This. Engaged to Frances Rhett! She rose up and stood beside Miss Pinckney for a moment whilst that lady finished her complaints. Then she made her escape and returned to her room-- As she closed the door she caught a glimpse of herself in the old-fashioned cheval glass that had been brought up by Dinah and Seth to help her in dressing for the dance and which had not been removed. Every picture in every mirror is the work of an artist--the man who makes a mirror is an artist; according to the perfection of his work is the perfection of the picture. The old cheval glass was as truthful in its way as Gainsborough, but Gainsborough had never such a lovely subject as Phyl. She started at her own reflection as though it had been that of a stranger. Then she looked mournfully at herself as a man might look at his splendid gifts which he has thrown away. All that was no use now.