“I don’t see the joke,” he grumbled. She turned to him. “I don’t think you’ve laughed very much in your life. You’re always being sorry for yourself.” “I have been very unfortunate,” he replied. “There you are again! Why don’t you tell yourself you’re lucky not to squint or turn in your toes? You’d be much more miserable then—much. But thinking yourself unfortunate, when you’re not, is a pleasant occupation.” “How do you know?” “I know a lot,” Henrietta said. “But I never thought myself unfortunate, so I wasn’t.” “Very noble,” Sales said sourly. “No. I told you it was exciting to be poor. You’re not poor enough. A new dress,” she went on, clasping her hands; “first of all, I had to save up—in pennies.” She turned accusingly. “You don’t believe it.” “It must have taken a long time.” “It did, but not so long as you would think, because it cost so little in the end. I saved up, and then I looked in the shop windows, and then I talked about it for days, and then I bought the stuff. Mother cut out the dress, and then I made it.” “And the result was charming.” “I thought so then. Now I know it wasn’t, but at the time I was happy.” “Well,” he said, “that’s very interesting, but it doesn’t help me.” “But I could help you if you told me your troubles. I should know how.” “Telling my troubles would be a help.” “Here I am, then.” “What’s the good?” he said. “You’ll desert me, too.” “Not if you’re good.” “Oh, if that’s the stipulation—” He stood up. His tone, which might have been provocative, was simply bored. She knew she had been dull, and her lip trembled with mortification. “Why, of course!” she cried gaily, when she had mastered that weakness. “Aunt Caroline warned me against you this very afternoon. She said—but, never mind. I’m not going to repeat her remarks. And anyhow, Aunt Sophia said they were not true. Aunt Rose,” Henrietta said thoughtfully, “was not there. I don’t suppose either of them is right. And now I’m going to see Mrs. Sales.” He ran after her. “Henrietta, I shouldn’t tell her you’ve seen me.” She frowned. “I don’t like that.” “It’s for her sake.” Henrietta turned away without a word, but she pondered, as she went, on the dangerous likeness between right and wrong and the horrible facility with which they could be, with which they had to be, interchanged. One became bewildered, one became lost; she felt herself being forced into a false position: she might not be able to get out. Aunt Rose had sent her, Francis Sales was conspiring with her—she made her father’s gesture of helplessness, it was not her fault. But she made up her mind she would never allow Francis Sales to find her dull again, for that was unfair to herself. § 3