“It seems to me that Mr. O’Hara has done mighty well, all things considered,” pursued Miss Polly, and she inquired suspiciously:  “Did Mrs. Squires ever tell you anything about his marriage?”

“I met her this morning on my way to work, and she told me about it.”

“Well, what do you make of it?  Don’t it beat anything you ever heard?”

“It does.  There’s not the slightest doubt of it.  And, do you know,” Gabriella went on hurriedly, “that story made a remarkable impression on me—­I’ve been thinking about it ever since.  It made me see everything differently, and I’ve even asked myself if I had enough patience with George.  If I wasn’t too hard and intolerant with him in the beginning?”

“I shouldn’t worry about that, honey, because I don’t believe it would have made any difference if you’d been gentler.  It’s the stuff in a man, I reckon, that counts more than the way a woman handles him.  You couldn’t have saved George any more than that other woman could ruin the man downstairs.”

“Perhaps not.”  Rising from her chair, Gabriella drew the pins from the smooth, close coil of her hair.  “But I see things so differently since I had that talk with Mr. O’Hara.  I am glad to have him for a friend,” she added generously, “but of course I still feel the same about Fanny.  I hope he won’t begin to notice Fanny.”

“Well, he won’t.  He ain’t thinkin’ about it.  I declare, Gabriella,” the little woman went on with a change of tone, “your head don’t look much bigger than a pincushion with your hair fixed that way.  It makes you seem mighty young, but there ain’t many women that could stand it.”

“It’s the fashion in Paris.  I have to be smart.  Do you suppose many people guess that I wear extreme styles,” she added laughingly, “because they are so hard to sell?”

“You certainly do look well in ’em.  I never saw anybody with more natural style.  Why, you can put on those slouchy things without a piece of corset and look as if you’d just stepped out of a fashion plate.”

“When you aren’t pretty, you’re obliged to be smart.”

“Well, of course you never had the small features and pink and white colouring that Jane had; but you always had a way of your own even as a girl, and you’re handsomer now than you ever were in your life.  If you were to ask Mr. O’Hara, I bet you he’d say you were a heap better lookin’ than Fanny.”

A gasp broke from Gabriella, and she turned from the mirror to stare blankly at the seamstress.  “Mr. O’Hara!  Why, what in the world made you think of him?”

But Miss Polly had grown suddenly impenetrable.  “Oh, nothin’,” she responded evasively; “I’ve just seen him look at you both when you were together.”

Gabriella laughed brightly.  “Oh, he looks at everything.  I never saw such eyes.”