had paid on her birthday for both of them; and that she had occasionally paid for herself upon an impulse of sheer independence.  But there had been other times when Alf had really paid for both of them.  He had been very decent about it.  He had not tried any nonsense, because he was not a flirtatious fellow.  Well, it had been very nice; and now it was all spoilt.  It was spoilt because of Emmy.  Emmy had spoilt it by wanting Alf for herself.  Ugh! thought Jenny.  Em had always been a jealous cat:  if she had just seen Alf somewhere she wouldn’t have wanted him.  That was it!  Em saw that Alf preferred Jenny; she saw that Jenny went out with him.  And because she always wanted to do what Jenny did, and always wanted what Jenny had got, Em wanted to be taken out by Alf.  Jenny, with the cruel unerringness of an exasperated woman, was piercing to Emmy’s heart with fierce lambent flashes of insight.  And if Alf had taken Em once or twice, and Jenny once or twice, not wanting either one or the other, or not wanting one of them more than the other, Em would have been satisfied.  It would have gone no further.  It would still have been sensible, without nonsense.  But it wouldn’t do for Em.  So long as Jenny was going out Emmy stayed at home.  She had said to herself:  “Why should Jenny go, and not me ... having all this pleasure?” That had been the first stage—­Jenny worked it all out.  First of all, it had been envy of Jenny’s going out.  Then had come stage number two:  “Why should Alf Rylett always take Jenny, and not me?” That had been the first stage of jealousy of Alf.  And the next time Alf took Jenny, Em had stayed at home, and thought herself sick about it, supposing that Alf and Jenny were happy and that she was unhappy, supposing they had all the fun, envying them the fun, hating them for having what she had not got, hating Jenny for monopolising Alf, hating Alf had monopolising Jenny; then, as she was a woman, hating Jenny for being a more pleasing woman than herself, and having her wounded jealousy moved into a strong craving for Alf, driven deeper and deeper into her heart by long-continued thought and frustrated desire.  And so she had come to look upon herself as one defrauded by Jenny of pleasure—­of happiness—­of love—­of Alf Rylett.

“And she calls it love!” thought Jenny bitterly.  “If that’s love, I’ve got no use for it.  Love’s giving, not getting.  I know that much.  Love’s giving yourself; wanting to give all you’ve got.  It’s got nothing at all to do with envy, or hating people, or being jealous....”  Then a swift feeling of pity darted through her, changing her thoughts, changing every shade of the portrait of Emmy which she had been etching with her quick corrosive strokes of insight.  “Poor old Em!” she murmured.  “She’s had a rotten time.  I know she has.  Let her have Alf if she wants.  I don’t want him.  I don’t want anybody ... except ...”  She closed her eyes in the most fleeting vision.  “Nobody except just Keith....”