“It isn’t real, this living!  It can’t last!” she exclaimed to herself.  “They’ll have to work out something better than this—­something, oh, much homier!” She thought of the old frame house in Ohio.  “That’s gone,” she declared, with a swallow.

Her acquaintance with young Mrs. Grewe was still the one bright spot at such times.  When Ethel felt blue she would go upstairs to the sunny new home that was to be hers; and there the blithe welcome she received restored her own belief in herself.  Mrs. Grewe would often lead her to talk of her home in Ohio, the eager dreams and plans of her girlhood; and on her side, the young widow gave pictures of life in London and Paris as she had seen it so many times.  They still shopped together occasionally.

But one afternoon about six o’clock, as Ethel’s car drew up at the door and she and her one friend got out, Joe came along—­and with one quick angry look he hurried into the building.  Quite furious and ashamed for him, Ethel turned to her companion—­but Mrs. Grewe smiled queerly and held out her small gloved hand.

“Good-bye, my dear, it has been so nice—­this afternoon and all the others.”  Her tone was a curious mixture of amused defiance and real regret.  Ethel stammered something, but in a moment her friend was gone.

Upstairs she met Joe with an angry frown, but to her indignant reproaches he replied by a quizzical smile.

“Look here, Ethel.”  He took her arm, in a kind protecting sort of way which made her fairly boil.  “Look here.  I can’t let you go about with a shady little person like that.  I didn’t know you’d picked her up.  Now, now—­I understand, of course—­you met her up there in the new apartment.  What a fool I was not to have thought of it.”

“Thought of what?  For goodness sake!”

“She won’t do, that’s all.”

“Why won’t she?” Ethel’s colour was suddenly high and her brown eyes had a dangerous gleam.  Joe looked at her, hesitating.

“Yes,” he said, “you’re the kind of a girl who has to be told the truth now and then.  She’s the mistress of one of our big millionaires.”

Ethel stared at him blankly.

“I don’t believe it!” she cried.  “Her taste!  The way she dresses!  Her—­her voice—­the things she says!”

“I know, I know,” he answered.  “That sort is rare and they come high.  I’ve talked to her—­”

“Oh, you have, have you!  Then why shouldn’t I?”

“Because, my dear, I’m one of the owners of this building.  My talks were brief—­just business.”

“What business had you letting her in?”

“Because times were bad three years ago and tenants weren’t so easy to find.  What harm has she done?  This isn’t a social club, you know—­”

“I know it isn’t!  Nobody speaks—­or even smiles!” A lump rose in Ethel’s throat.  “And she was so nice and friendly!”

“I’ll bet she was—­”

“I won’t believe it!” Now her face was reddening with self-mortification.  “Do you mean to tell me—­living like that—­with a companion, even—­a prim old maid who looks as though she had left Boston only last night—­”