She sat down, and she tried to talk in her usual blithe and amusing way, but she knew that she was not succeeding at all. In the presence of this new Emily she felt shockingly frivolous. She was sorry that she had worn her white gloves and her sable stole. She wished that the heels of her new shoes were not so high. She told Emily that she wanted something to do. “Do you mean charitable work, Jessica?” asked Miss Lyons. “I’m afraid I’d have to be paid,” said Mrs. Champney, with a guilty flush. “You see, Emily, I’ve had a—a financial disaster. Of course, my children are only too willing, but—” “They’re all married, aren’t they?” asked Emily. Something in the grave, kindly tone of her question stung Mrs. Champney into a sort of bitterness. “Yes,” she answered. “All of them are married. I’m a mother-in-law, Emily.” Miss Lyons did not smile. She was silent for a time, looking down at her polished desk as if she were consulting a crystal. Then she looked up. “We happen to need somebody in the Needlecraft Shop,” she said. “I could give you that, Jessica, at eighteen dollars a week; but—” “But what?” asked Mrs. Champney, after waiting a minute. “I’m afraid you haven’t had much experience,” said Miss Lyons. “I’ve done a good deal of parish work,” said Mrs. Champney anxiously. She had known love, and happiness with the man she loved. She had endured the anguish of losing him. She had borne three children and brought them up. She had traveled a little in the world. She had even known a “financial disaster” at fifty; but in the presence of Emily Lyons she was ready to admit that she had had no experience—that her sole qualification for any useful occupation was the parish work she had done. “If you’d like to try it, then,” said Emily gently. “I’ve found, though, that women who have led a sheltered domestic life are inclined to be a little oversensitive when it comes to business.” Mrs. Champney, into whose sheltered domestic life had come only such incidents as birth and death and illness and accident and so on, said that she hoped she wasn’t silly. “Of course you’re not, my dear!” said her old friend, taking her hand across the desk. “You’re splendid! You always were!” And Mrs. Champney had to be satisfied with that. She was to begin at the Needlecraft Shop the next morning. She was at last to enter the world; but instead of being filled with ambitious hopes and resolves, she actually could think of nothing but how she was to tell Robert about it. The only possible way was to take a mighty high hand with him from the start, and the trouble was that she didn’t feel high-handed. She felt depressed, and tired and—yes, crushed—that was the word for it. She was not going to let Robert suspect that, however, or Molly, either.