“You don’t want to know anything about the Greeks and the Romans, Harriet,” said Miss Anna.  “Content yourself with the earliest Hebrews.  You have gotten along very well without the Greeks and the Romans—­for—­a—­long—­time.”

Harriet understood at last; there was no mistaking now.  She was a very delicate instrument and much used to being rudely played upon.  Her friend’s reception of her to-day had been so unaccountable that at one moment she had suspected that her appearance might be at fault.  Harriet had known women to turn cold at the sight of a new gown; and it had really become a life principle not to dress even as well as she could, because she needed the kindness that flows out so copiously from new clothes to old clothes.  But it was embarrassment that caused her now to say rather aimlessly: 

“I believe I feel overdressed.  What possessed me?”

“Don’t overdress again,” enjoined Miss Anna in stern confidence.  “Never try to change yourself in anyway.  I like you better as you are—­a—­great—­deal—­better.”

“Then you shall have me as you like me, Anna dear,” replied Harriet, faithfully and earnestly, with a faltering voice; and she looked out into the yard with a return of an expression very old and very weary.  Fortunately she was short-sighted and was thus unable to see her bouquet which made such a burning blot on the green grass, with the ribbon trailing beside it and the card still holding on as though determined to see the strange adventure through to the end.

“Good-by, Anna,” she said, rising tremblingly, though at the beginning of her visit.

“Oh, good-by, Harriet,” replied Miss Anna, giving a cheerful shake to the yellow bowl.

As Harriet walked slowly down the street, a more courageously dressed woman than she had been for years, her chin quivered and she shook with sobs heroically choked back.

Miss Anna went into the library and sat down near the door.  Her face which had been very white was scarlet again:  “What was it you did—­tell me quickly.  I cannot stand it.”

He came over and taking her cheeks between his palms turned her face up and looked down into her eyes.  But she shut them quickly.  “What do you suppose I did?  Harriet and I sat for half an hour in another room.  I don’t remember what I did; but it could not have been anything very bad:  others were all around us.”

She opened her eyes and pushed him away harshly:  “I have wounded Harriet in her most sensitive spot; and then I insulted her after I wounded her,” and she went upstairs.

Later he found the bouquet on his library table with the card stuck in the top.  The flowers stayed there freshly watered till the petals strewed his table:  they were not even dusted away.

As for Harriet herself, the wound of the morning must have penetrated till it struck some deep flint in her composition; for she came back the next day in high spirits and severely underdressed—­in what might be called toilet reduced to its lowest terms, like a common fraction.  She had restored herself to the footing of an undervalued intercourse.  At the sight of her Miss Anna sprang up, kissed her all over the face, was atoningly cordial with her arms, tried in every way to say:  “See, Harriet, I bare my heart!  Behold the dagger of remorse!”