she exclaimed, evidently to the paragon in the picture, “I get you!” Whereupon, from the wardrobe, she produced a hat.  “You sure had my number when you guessed the feathers on that other would get draggled,” she observed in high good humour, generously ignoring their former unpleasantness on the subject.  When she had pinned it on she bent mockingly over her sister, who sat on the bed.  “How d’you like my new toque?  Peekaboo!  That’s the way the guys rubberneck to see if you’re good lookin’.”

Lise was exalted, feverish, apparently possessed by some high secret; her eyes shone, and when she crossed the room she whistled bars of ragtime and executed mincing steps of the maxixe.  Fumbling in the upper drawer for a pair of white gloves (also new), she knocked off the corner of the bureau her velvet bag; it opened as it struck the floor, and out of it rolled a lilac vanity case and a yellow coin.  Casting a suspicious, lightning glance at Janet, she snatched up the vanity case and covered the coin with her foot.

“Lock the doors!” she cried, with an hysteric giggle.  Then removing her foot she picked up the coin surreptitiously.  To her amazement her sister made no comment, did not seem to have taken in the significance of the episode.  Lise had expected a tempest of indignant, searching questions, a “third degree,” as she would have put it.  She snapped the bag together, drew on her gloves, and, when she was ready to leave, with characteristic audacity crossed the room, taking her sister’s face between her hands and kissing her.

“Tell me your troubles, sweetheart!” she said—­and did not wait to hear them.

Janet was incapable of speech—­nor could she have brought herself to ask Lise whether or not the money had been earned at the Bagatelle, and remained miraculously unspent.  It was possible, but highly incredible.  And then, the vanity case and the new hat were to be accounted for!  The sight of the gold piece, indeed, had suddenly revived in Janet the queer feeling of faintness, almost of nausea she had experienced after parting with Lottie Myers.  And by some untoward association she was reminded of a conversation she had had with Ditmar on the Saturday afternoon following their first Sunday excursion, when, on opening her pay envelope, she had found twenty dollars.

“Are you sure I’m worth it?” she had demanded—­and he had been quite sure.  He had added that she was worth more, much more, but that he could not give her as yet, without the risk of comment, a sum commensurate with the value of her services....  But now she asked herself again, was she worth it? or was it merely—­part of her price?  Going to the wardrobe and opening a drawer at the bottom she searched among her clothes until she discovered the piece of tissue paper in which she had wrapped the rose rescued from the cluster he had given her.  The petals were dry, yet they gave forth, still, a faint, reminiscent fragrance as she pressed them to her face.  Janet wept....