In Gerty Farish’s sitting-room, whither a hansom had carried the two friends, Lily dropped into a chair with a faint sound of laughter: it struck her as a humorous coincidence that her aunt’s legacy should so nearly represent the amount of her debt to Trenor. The need of discharging that debt had reasserted itself with increased urgency since her return to America, and she spoke her first thought in saying to the anxiously hovering Gerty: “I wonder when the legacies will be paid.” But Miss Farish could not pause over the legacies; she broke into a larger indignation. “Oh, Lily, it’s unjust; it’s cruel—Grace Stepney must FEEL she has no right to all that money!” “Any one who knew how to please Aunt Julia has a right to her money,” Miss Bart rejoined philosophically. “But she was devoted to you—she led every one to think—” Gerty checked herself in evident embarrassment, and Miss Bart turned to her with a direct look. “Gerty, be honest: this will was made only six weeks ago. She had heard of my break with the Dorsets?” “Every one heard, of course, that there had been some disagreement—some misunderstanding——” “Did she hear that Bertha turned me off the yacht?” “Lily!” “That was what happened, you know. She said I was trying to marry George Dorset. She did it to make him think she was jealous. Isn’t that what she told Gwen Stepney?” “I don’t know—I don’t listen to such horrors.” “I MUST listen to them—I must know where I stand.” She paused, and again sounded a faint note of derision. “Did you notice the women? They were afraid to snub me while they thought I was going to get the money—afterward they scuttled off as if I had the plague.” Gerty remained silent, and she continued: “I stayed on to see what would happen. They took their cue from Gwen Stepney and Lulu Melson—I saw them watching to see what Gwen would do.—Gerty, I must know just what is being said of me.” “I tell you I don’t listen——” “One hears such things without listening.” She rose and laid her resolute hands on Miss Farish’s shoulders. “Gerty, are people going to cut me?” “Your FRIENDS, Lily—how can you think it?” “Who are one’s friends at such a time? Who, but you, you poor trustful darling? And heaven knows what YOU suspect me of!” She kissed Gerty with a whimsical murmur. “You’d never let it make any difference—but then you’re fond of criminals, Gerty! How about the irreclaimable ones, though? For I’m absolutely impenitent, you know.” She drew herself up to the full height of her slender majesty, towering like some dark angel of defiance above the troubled Gerty, who could only falter out: “Lily, Lily—how can you laugh about such things?” “So as not to weep, perhaps. But no—I’m not of the tearful order. I discovered early that crying makes my nose red, and the knowledge has helped me through several painful episodes.” She took a restless turn about the room, and then, reseating herself, lifted the bright mockery of her eyes to Gerty’s anxious countenance.