gazed, the embroidery was enriched by more and more yellow and white and orange—the string of jewels along the embankment, the face of the church clock.
She turned from the window to the room, and lighted her own lamp, for the room was now deeply dusk. It was a large, low, pleasant room. It had always seemed pleasant to her through the five years in which she had worked, and played, and laughed, and cried there. Now she wondered why she had not always hated it.
The stairs creaked. The knocker spoke. She caught her head in both hands.
“My God!” she said, “this is too much!”
Yet she went to the door.
“Oh—it’s only you,” she said, and, with no other greeting, walked back into the room, and sat down at the table.
The newcomer was left to close the outer door, and to follow at her own pleasure. The newcomer was another girl, younger, prettier, smarter. She turned her head sidewise, like a little bird, and looked at her friend with very bright eyes. Then she looked round the room.
“My dear Jane,” she said, “whatever have you been doing to yourself?”
