“Dearest,” said Rachel, “don’t give me new things.  It isn’t that—­you know I did take it when I was in need.  But, oh, Hester, I know you can’t afford it.  I should not mind if you were rich, at least, I would try not, but—­if you would only give me some of your old clothes instead.  I should like them all the better because you had worn them.”  And Rachel kissed the lapel of Hester’s coat.

“I can’t,” whispered Hester into Rachel’s hair.  “The best is only just good enough.”

“Wouldn’t it be kinder to me?”

Hester trembled, and then burst into tears.

“I will wear it, I will wear it,” said Rachel, hurriedly.  “Look, Hester!  I have got it on.  How deliciously warm! and—­do look!—­it has two little pockets in the fur lining.”

But Hester wept passionately, and Rachel sat down by her on the floor in the new cloak till the paroxysm was over.

How does a subtle affinity find a foothold between natures which present an obvious, a violent contrast to each other?  Why do the obvious and the subtle forget their life-long feud at intervals and suddenly appear for a moment in each other’s society?

Rachel was physically strong.  Hester was weak.  The one was calm, patient, practical, equable, the other imaginative, unbalanced, excitable.

Life had not spoiled Rachel.  Lady Susan Gresley had done her best to spoil Hester.  The one had lived the unprotected life, and showed it in her bearing.  The other had lived the sheltered life, and bore its mark upon her pure forehead and youthful face.

“I cannot bear it,” said Hester at last.  “I think and think, and I can’t think of anything.  I would give my life for you, and you will hardly let me give you L3 10_s._ 6_d._ That is all it cost.  It is only frieze, that common red frieze, and the lining is only rabbit.”  A last tear fell at the word rabbit.  “I wanted to get you a velvet one, just the same as my new one, lined with chinchilla, but I knew it would only make you miserable.  I wish,” looking vindictively at the cloak—­“I wish rabbits had never been born.”

Rachel laughed.  Hester was evidently recovering.

“Mr. Scarlett was saying last night that no one can help any one,” continued Hester, turning her white, exhausted face to her friend.  “He said that we are always so placed that we can only look on.  And I told him that could not be true, but, oh, in my heart, Rachel, I have felt it was true all these long, long five years since you have lived here.”

Rachel came and stood beside her at the little window.  There was just room for them between the type-writer and the bed.

Far below, Hester’s brougham was pacing up and down.

“Then are love and sympathy nothing?” she said.  “Those are the real gifts.  If I were rich to-morrow I should look to you just as I do now for the things which money can’t buy.  And those are the things”—­Rachel’s voice shook—­“which you have always given me, and which I can’t do without.  You feel my poverty more than I do myself.  It crushed me at first when I could not support myself.  Now that I can—­and in everything except money I am very rich—­I am comparatively happy.”