And Ella, sobbing in the arms of the girl that she had never quite understood, was able to tell herself:  “She’s right—­dead right!  The straight road’s the only road....”

It was little Lily who created a diversion.  She had been standing, very quietly, in the shelter of their arms for some time—­she had a way of standing with an infinite patience, for hours, in one place.  But suddenly, as if drawn by some instinct, she dropped down on the floor, beside the cheap suit-case, and her small hands, shaking with eagerness, started to take out the clothes that had been flung into it.

It was uncanny, almost, to see the child so happily beginning to unpack the suit-case.  The sight dried Rose-Marie’s tears in an almost miraculous way.

“Let’s put away the things,” she suggested shakily, to Ella.  “For you won’t be going now, will you?”

The face that Ella Volsky lifted was a changed face.  Her expression was a shade more wistful, perhaps, but the somber glow had gone out of her eyes, leaving them softer than Rose-Marie had supposed possible.

“No, Miss,” she said quietly, “I won’t be going—­away.  You’re right, it ain’t worth the price!” And the incident, from that moment, was closed.

They unpacked the garments—­there weren’t many of them—­quietly.  But Rose-Marie was very glad, deep in her soul, and she somehow felt that Ella’s mind was relieved of a tremendous strain.  They didn’t speak again, but there was something in the way Ella’s hand touched her little sister’s sunny hair that was more revealing than words.  And there was something in the way Rose-Marie’s mouth curved blithely up that told a whole story of satisfaction and content.  It seemed as if peace, with her white wings folded and at rest, was hovering, at last, above the Volsky flat.

And then, all at once, the momentary lull was over.  All at once the calm was shattered as a china cup, falling from a careless hand, is broken.  There was a sudden burst of noise in the front room; of rough words; of a woman sobbing.  There was the sound of Mrs. Volsky’s voice, raised in an unwonted cry of anguish, there was a trickle of water slithering down upon an uncarpeted floor—­as if the wash-tub had been overturned.

It was the final event of an unsettling day—­the last straw.  Forgetting Lily, forgetting the unpacking, Rose-Marie jumped to her feet, ran to the door.  Ella followed.  They stood together on the threshold of the outer room, and stared.

The room seemed full of people—­shouting, gesticulating people.  And in the foreground was Jim—­as sleek and well groomed as ever.  Of all the crowd he seemed the only one who was composed.  In front of him stood Mrs. Volsky—­her face drawn and white, her hands clasped in a way that was singularly and primitively appealing.

At first Rose-Marie thought that the commotion had to do with Jim.  She was always half expecting to hear that he had been apprehended in some sort of mischief, that he had been accused of some crime.  But she dismissed the idea quickly—­his composure was too real to be born of bravado.  It was while her brain groped for some new solution that she became conscious of Mrs. Volsky’s voice.