Gradually Emmy’s tearless sobs diminished; she began to murmur broken, meaningless ejaculations of self-contempt; and to strain away from Jenny.  At last she pushed Jenny from her, feverishly freeing herself, so that they stood apart, while Emmy blew her nose and wiped her eyes.  All this time they did not speak to each other, and when Emmy turned blindly away Jenny mechanically took hold of the kettle, filled it, and set it to boil upon the gas.  Emmy watched her curiously, feeling that her nose was cold and her eyes were burning.  Little dry tremors seemed to shake her throat; dreariness had settled upon her, pressing her down; making her feel ashamed of such a display of the long secret so carefully hoarded away from prying glances.

“What’s that for?” she miserably asked, indicating the kettle.

“Going to steam my hat,” Jenny said.  “The brim’s all floppy.”  There was now only a practical note in her voice.  She, too, was ashamed.  “You’d better go up and lie down for a bit.  I’ll stay with Pa, in case he falls into the fire.  Just the sort of thing he would do on a night like this.  Just because you’re upset.”

“I shan’t go up.  It’s too cold.  I’ll sit by the fire a bit.”

They both went into the kitchen, where the old man was whistling under his breath.

“Was there any noos on the play-cards?” he inquired after a moment, becoming aware of their presence.  “Emmy—­Jenny.”

“No, Pa.  I told you.  Have to wait till Sunday.  Funny thing there’s so much more news in the Sunday papers:  I suppose people are all extra wicked on Saturdays.  They get paid Friday night, I shouldn’t wonder; and it goes to their heads.”

“Silly!” Emmy said under her breath.  “It’s the week’s news.”

“That’s all right, old girl,” admonished Jenny.  “I was only giving him something to think about.  Poor old soul.  Now, about this hat:  the girls all go on at me....  Say I dress like a broker’s-man.  I’m going to smarten myself up.  You never know what might happen.  Why, I might get off with a Duke!”

Emmy was overtaken by an impulse of gratitude.

“You can have mine, if you like,” she said.  “The one you gave me ... on my birthday.”  Jenny solemnly shook her head.  She did not thank her sister.  Thanks were never given in that household, because they were a part of “peliteness,” and were supposed to have no place in the domestic arena.

“Not if I know it!” she humorously retorted.  “I made it for you, and it suits you.  Not my style at all.  I’ll just get out my box of bits.  You’ll see something that’ll surprise you, my girl.”