Janet, infuriated, flew at her sister.  Lise struggled to escape.

“Leave me go” she whimpered in genuine alarm, and when at length she was released she went to the mirror and began straightening her hat, which had flopped to one side of her head.  “I didn’t mean nothin’, I was only kiddie’ you—­what’s the use of gettin’ nutty over a jest?”

“I’m not like-you,” said Janet.

“I was only kiddin’, I tell you,” insisted Lise, with a hat pin in her mouth.  “Forget it.”

When Lise had gone out Janet sat down in the rocking-chair and began to rock agitatedly.  What had really made her angry, she began to perceive, was the realization of a certain amount of truth in her sister’s intimation concerning Ditmar.  Why should she have, in Lise, continually before her eyes a degraded caricature of her own aspirations and ideals? or was Lise a mirror—­somewhat tarnished, indeed—­in which she read the truth about herself?  For some time Janet had more than suspected that her sister possessed a new lover—­a lover whom she refrained from discussing; an ominous sign, since it had been her habit to dangle her conquests before Janet’s eyes, to discuss their merits and demerits with an engaging though cynical freedom.  Although the existence of this gentleman was based on evidence purely circumstantial, Janet was inclined to believe him of a type wholly different from his predecessors; and the fact that his attentions were curiously intermittent and irregular inclined her to the theory that he was not a resident of Hampton.  What was he like?  It revolted her to reflect that he might in some ways possibly resemble Ditmar.  Thus he became the object of a morbid speculation, especially at such times as this, when Lise attired herself in her new winter finery and went forth to meet him.  Janet, also, had recently been self-convicted of sharing with Lise the same questionable tendency toward self-adornment to please the eye of man.  The very next Saturday night after she had indulged in that mad extravagance of the blue suit, Lise had brought home from the window of The Paris in Faber Street a hat that had excited the cupidity and admiration of Miss Schuler and herself, and in front of which they had stood languishing on three successive evenings.  In its acquisition Lise had expended almost the whole of a week’s salary.  Its colour was purple, on three sides were massed drooping lilac feathers, but over the left ear the wide brim was caught up and held by a crescent of brilliant paste stones.  Shortly after this purchase—­the next week, in fact,—­The Paris had alluringly and craftily displayed, for the tempting sum of $6.29, the very cloak ordained by providence to “go” with the hat.  Miss Schuler declared it would be a crime to fail to take advantage of such an opportunity but the trouble was that Lise had had to wait for two more pay-days and endure the suspense arising from the possibility that some young lady of taste and means might meanwhile become its happy proprietor.