('No, no! It isn't Sheilah!') Sheilah wanted to reply, and might have, too, in all honesty, for it really wasn't the Sheilah Cicely Morgan had known so many years ago.
It was Cicely Morgan in the back of the automobile. Cicely had spent most of her time in Europe since the war. Sheilah hadn't seen Cicely for over a dozen years. But it was the same Cicely, with the same smooth manner, and still very beautiful in spite of the bit of white hair that showed from beneath the brim of her perfect, close-fitting little hat—still a perfect, close-fitting little hat.
Sheilah's hat was anything but perfect and close-fitting—it had always been too big in the crown—and her dress, a black cotton marquisette with white polka-dots, which she had bought for fifteen dollars in a department-store basement, was anything but perfect and close-fitting too. She wished the traffic policeman would wave his hand and let her escape. But he didn't. She found herself acknowledging her identity in spite of herself.
'Yes, it's I—Sheilah. Hello, Cicely!' She smiled, and her eyes brightened. It took more than broken nerves, a body that ached, and clothes that were cheap and shabby, to rob Sheilah of her charm of manner.
'Get in. Let me take you where you're going,' said Cicely.
