It was an old, old story the fierce yet silent opposition between these two people; an inevitable antipathy; a strife of type and type, of class and class, rather than of individuals: the strife of the woman who demands respect, with the man who refuses to grant it. * * * * * Phyllis was in high feather at her successful afternoon, at the compliment paid her by the great Sidney in particular; and Fanny rather brightened at the prospect of what bore even so distant a resemblance to an occupation, as chaperoning her sister to a studio. Only Conny was silent and depressed, and when they reached Baker-street, followed Gertrude to her room. Here she flung herself on the bed, regardless of her new transparent black hat, and its daffodil trimmings. "Gerty, 'the world's a beast, and I hate it!'" "You are not well, Conny. If you would only acknowledge the fact, and see a doctor." "Gerty, come here." Gertrude went over to the bed, secretly alarmed; something in her friend's tones frightened her. Conny crushed her face against the pillows, then said in smothered tones: "I can't bear it any longer. I must tell some one or it will kill me." Gertrude grew pale; instinctively she felt what was coming; instinctively she desired to ward it off. "Can't you guess? Oh, you may say it is humiliating, unworthy; I know that." She raised her face suddenly: "Oh, Gerty, how can I help it? He is so different from them all; from the sneaks who want one's money; from the bad imitations of fashionable young men, who snub, and patronise, and sneer at us all. Who could help it? Frank----" "Conny, Conny, you musn't tell me this." Gertrude caught her friend in her arms, so as to shield her face. She disapproved, generally speaking, of confidences of this kind, considering them bad for both giver and receiver; but this particular confidence she felt to be simply intolerable. "Gerty, what have I done, what have I said?" "Nothing, really nothing, Con, dear old girl. You have told me nothing." A pause; then Conny said, between the sobs which at last had broken forth: "How can I bear my life? How can I bear it?" Gertrude was very pale. "We all have to bear things, Conny; often this kind of thing, we women." "I don't think I _can_." "Yes, you will. You have no end of pluck. One day you are going to be very happy." "Never, Gerty. We rich girls always end up with sneaks--no decent person comes near us." "There are other things which make happiness besides--pleasant things happening to one." "What sort of things?" Gertrude paused a minute, then said bravely: "Our own self-respect, and the integrity of the people we care for." "That sounds very nice," replied Conny, without enthusiasm, "but I should like a little of the more obvious sorts of happiness as well." Gertrude gave a laugh, which was also a sob. "So should I, Conny, so should I." [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XII. GERTRUDE IS ANXIOUS.