“Oh, these rich!” raged Susan, attacking her hair with angry sweeps of the brush.  “Do you wonder they think that the earth was made for them and Heaven too!  They have everything!  They can dash you off a note that takes away your whole income, they can saunter in late to church on Easter Sunday and rustle into their big empty pews, when the rest of us have been standing in the aisles for half an hour; they can call in a doctor for a cut finger, when Mary has to fight perfect agonies before she dares afford it—­Don’t mind me,” she broke off, penitently, “but let’s think what’s to be done.  You couldn’t take the public school examinations, could you, Miss Lydia? it would be so glorious to simply let Mrs. Lawrence slide!”

“I always meant to do that some day,” said Lydia, wiping her eyes and gulping, “but it would take time.  And meanwhile—­And there are Mary’s doctor’s bills, and the interest on our Piedmont lot—­” For the Lord sisters, for patient years, had been paying interest, and an occasional installment, on a barren little tract of land nine blocks away from the Piedmont trolley.

“You could borrow—­” began Susan.

But Lydia was more practical.  She dried her eyes, straightened her hair and collar, and came, with her own quiet dignity, to the discussion of possibilities.  She was convinced that Mrs. Lawrence had written in haste, and was already regretting it.

“No, she’s too proud ever to send for me,” she assured Susan, when the girl suggested their simply biding their time, “but I know that by taking me back at once she would save herself any amount of annoyance and time.  So I’d better go and see her to-night, for by to-morrow she might have committed herself to a change.”

“But you hate to go, don’t you?” Susan asked, watching her keenly.

“Ah, well, it’s unpleasant of course,” Lydia said simply.  “She may be unwilling to accept my apology.  She may not even see me.  One feels so—­so humiliated, Sue.”

“In that case, I’m going along to buck you up,” said Susan, cheerfully.

In spite of Lydia’s protests, go she did.  They walked to the Lawrence home in a night so dark that Susan blinked when they finally entered the magnificent, lighted hallway.

The butler obviously disapproved of them.  He did not quite attempt to shut the door on them, but Susan felt that they intruded.

“Mrs. Lawrence is at dinner, Miss Lord,” he reminded Lydia, gravely.

“Yes, I know, but this is rather—­important, Hughes,” said Lydia, clearing her throat nervously.

“You had better see her at the usual time to-morrow,” suggested the butler, smoothly.  Susan’s face burned.  She longed to snatch one of the iron Japanese swords that decorated the hall, and with it prove to Hughes that his insolence was appreciated.  But more reasonable tactics must prevail.

“Will you say that I am here, Hughes?” Miss Lord asked quietly.