“Lise,” she said, “I understand why you—­” she could not bring herself to pronounce the words “got drunk,”—­“I understand why you did it.  I oughtn’t to have talked to you that way.  But it was terrible to wake up and see you.”

For awhile Lise did not reply.  Then she raised herself, feeling her hair with an involuntary gesture, regarding her sister with a bewildered look, her face puckered.  Her eyes burned, and under them were black shadows.

“How do you mean—­you understand?” she asked slowly.  “You never hit the booze.”

Even Lise’s language, which ordinarily offended her, failed to change her sudden impassioned and repentant mood.  She was astonished at herself for this sudden softening, since she did not really love Lise, and all day she had hated her, wished never to see her again.

“No, but I can understand how it would be to want to,” Janet said.  “Lise, I guess we’re searching—­both of us for something we’ll never find.”

Lise stared at her with a contracted, puzzled expression, as of a person awaking from sleep, all of whose faculties are being strained toward comprehension.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.  “You and me?  You’re all right—­you’ve got no kick coming.”

“Life is hard, it’s hard on girls like us—­we want things we can’t have.”  Janet was at a loss to express herself.

“Well, it ain’t any pipe dream,” Lise agreed.  Her glance turned involuntarily toward the picture of the Olympian dinner party pinned on the wall.  “Swells have a good time,” she added.

“Maybe they pay for it, too,” said Janet.

“I wouldn’t holler about paying—­it’s paying and not getting the goods,” declared Lise.

“You’ll pay, and you won’t get it.  That kind of life is—­hell,” Janet cried.

Self-centered as Lise was, absorbed in her own trouble and present physical discomfort, this unaccustomed word from her sister and the vehemence with which it was spoken surprised and frightened her, brought home to her some hint of the terror in Janet’s soul.

“Me for the water wagon,” she said.

Janet was not convinced.  She had hoped to discover the identity of the man who had taken Lise to Gruber’s, but she did not attempt to continue the conversation.  She rose and took off her hat.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” she asked.  “I’ll tell mother you have a headache and bring in your supper.”

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” replied Lise, gratefully.

Perhaps the most disconcerting characteristic of that complex affair, the human organism, is the lack of continuity of its moods.  The soul, so called, is as sensitive to physical conditions as a barometer:  affected by lack of sleep, by smells and sounds, by food, by the weather—­whether a day be sapphire or obsidian.  And the resolutions arising from one mood are thwarted by the actions of the next.  Janet had observed this phenomenon, and sometimes,