She stood there for a moment, listening to the departure of his footsteps as he slouched aimlessly away.  He was nobody—­nobody in her life—­but she felt sorry for him.  On the verge of love—­in love itself—­is a boundless capacity for sympathy.  She turned to go upstairs, still feeling pity for him in the pain she had unavoidably caused him.  She did not realize that this was simply a reflection, the first shadowing of her love for Traill, that sought any outlet in which to find expression.

In the bedroom, Janet was making a strange costume for a student’s fancy dress ball.  She did not look up when Sally entered.  With her inexperienced needle, the work occupied her whole attention.  Sally stood and watched her laborious efforts with a smile of gentle amusement.

“Let me do it for you,” she said at last—­“those stitches ’ll never hold.”

In her mood she was willing—­anxious to do anything for any one.  She felt no fatigue from her day’s work.  In the everlasting routine, it is the mind that makes the body tired.  Her mind was lifted above the ordinary susceptibility to exhaustion.

Janet stuck her needle into the material on her knee, and looked up searchingly.

“What’s the matter with you to-night?” she asked.

“Nothing’s the matter.  Why?”

“You’re so officiously agreeable.”

Sally laughed.

“You wanted to help Mrs. Hewson to make that mincemeat,” Janet continued; “now you want to help me; and you were the soul of good-nature to Mr. Arthur.  I’m sure he thinks you’re going to accept him.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I told him after supper.  He asked me to come out with him.  I told him I couldn’t marry him.”

Janet looked at her with curiosity, her eyes narrowed, judging the tone of the words rather than the words themselves, as if they were subject for her brush.

“How did he take it?” she asked, gaining time for the maturity of her judgment.

“I feel awfully sorry for him.  He went out again when I came in.”

“Takes it badly, then?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’re sorry for him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?  You haven’t thrown him over.  He’s taken his chance—­he’ll get over it.  You’re very soft-hearted.  It’s all in the game.  You’ll have to take your chance as well, and no one’ll be sorry for you if you come worst out of it.”

Sally looked at her thoughtfully.  “I don’t believe you’ve got a heart, Janet,” she said.

“Don’t you?”

“Well, have you?”

“It’s not a weakness I care to confess to.”

“That’s as good as admitting it.”

Janet was slowly driving to the point.  In another moment, she knew that she would have the truth.

“If having a heart means wasting one’s sorrows on men like Mr. Arthur, I’m glad I haven’t.”  Janet threw her work over the end of her bed, and looked up at Sally.