The red in Greta Gurden’s face was natural: it came and went. Fury blazed in the dark eyes, for now Anita Bellini had touched her upon the rawest place of Greta’s self-esteem and put into words, at this incongruous moment, all that this poor little _poseuse_ feared. But it was Anita Bellini’s way, to go off at spiteful tangents, to sting and hurt those from whom she expected unswerving loyalty. It was characteristic of her that at this moment, when her mind and spirit were tensed to meet the very real dangers which threatened her, she could go out of her way to humiliate her creature. “You aren’t able to attend to _Gossip_, of course. You’re having the letters sent here?” she asked, and, when the woman nodded silently: “The last batch were valueless; there was a little bit about the Debouson woman, but I knew all about that. She isn’t worth a penny; in fact, there’s a bankruptcy petition out against her husband. You had better write a spicy paragraph about her; that is all the information is worth.” She was walking about the room as she spoke, stopping now and again to look, with a contemptuous lift of her lips, at the tawdriness of the imitations with which the room was stocked. “I’m going to Capri in the spring,” she said. “The new villa has been bought; I suppose I’d better take you along with me.” She did not see the malignity that shot from the dark eyes. “The paper will have to go. It is becoming more and more useless. If you had had a spark of genius in you, Greta, you would have made that into a property. You are sure you told that detective girl nothing?” “Nothing,” said Greta, regaining control of her voice. “What is this?” Anita had stopped before a big secretaire, pulled down the flap and was examining a number of letters neatly tied in bundles. “Are those the papers of mine that I asked you to put in order?” “Yes.” The princess detached one letter from a bundle, read it and tossed it back. “Most of these things can be burned,” she said. “You found nothing of importance?” “No, nothing.” Something in Greta’s tone made the other turn her head. “What’s the matter with you?” And then the pent-up fury of Greta Gurden burst forth. She was sobbing with rage, almost unintelligible in her anger. “You treat me as if I was a servant--patronizing! I hate your beastly way of talking to me! I’m not a dog. I’ve served you like a slave for twelve years, and I won’t be talked to as you talk to me. I won’t! I’d sooner starve in the gutter! I suppose I am getting old. I know I am, but you needn’t throw it in my face. You’re always talking about my looks. If you can’t say anything nice, say nothing at all. I’m tired of it.” “Don’t be a fool!” scoffed the princess. “And don’t be hysterical. You’ve got your future to consider and you’re not going to help by quarrelling with me. You can’t go back to the chorus.”