Yet there were times when the country of make-believe was swept down by a whirlwind, a whirlwind of realization which crashed through Katie’s consciousness and knocked over the fancyings.  Those whirlwinds would come all unannounced; when Ann seemed most Ann, playing with Worth, perhaps wearing one of the prettiest dresses and smilingly listening to something Wayne was telling her had happened over at the shops.  And on the heels of the whirlwind knocking down the country of make-believe would come the girl from a vast unknown rushing wildly from—­what?  What had become of that girl?  Would she hear from her again?  It was almost as if the girl made by reality had indeed gone down under the waters that day, and the things the years had made her had abdicated in favor of the things Katie would make her.  And yet did the things the years had made one ever really abdicate?  Was it because the girl of the years was too worn for assertiveness that the girl of fancy could seem the all?  Was it only that she slumbered—­and sometimes stirred a little in her sleep?—­And when she awoke?

Even to each other they did not speak of that other girl, as if fearing a word might wake her.  Sometimes they heard her stir; as one day soon after Ann’s coming Katie had said:  “Ann, just what is it is the matter with your vocal chords?”

“Why I didn’t know anything was,” stammered Ann.

“But you seem unable to pronounce my name.”

Ann colored.

“It is spelled K-a-t-i-e,” Kate went on, “and is pronounced K—­T.  Try it, Ann.  See if you can say it.”

Ann looked at her.  The look itself crossed the border country.  “Katie—­” she choked—­and the country of make-believe fell palely away.

But they did not speak of the things they had stirred.

That thing of not saying it had been established the day Ann’s bank account was opened.  Katie had been “over the river,” as she called going over to the city.  Upon returning she found Ann up in her room.  She stood there unpinning her hat, telling of an automobile accident on the bridge—­Katie seldom came in without some stirring tale.  As she was leaving she rummaged in her bag.  “And oh yes, Ann,” she said, carelessly, “here’s your bank book.  I presumed to draw twenty dollars for you, thinking you might need it before you could get over.  Oh dear—­that telephone!  And I know it’s Wayne for me.”

But she did not escape.  Ann was waiting for her when she came back up stairs.

She held out the book, shaking her head.  Her face told that she had been pulled back.

“Not money,” she said unsteadily.  “All the rest of it is bad enough—­but not money.  I’d have no—­self-respect.”

“Self-respect!” jeered Kate.  “I’d have no self-respect if I didn’t take money.  Nobody can be self-respecting when broke.  None of the rest of us seem to be inquiring into our sources of revenue, so why should you?”