part of the letter of credit her mother slipped into her traveling
bag at the parting; she herself was in a negligee which had as much style
as Janet's costume and, in addition, individual taste, whereof Janet had
but little; and besides, while her beauty had the same American
delicateness, as of the finest, least florid Sevres or Dresden, it also
had a look of durability which Janet's beauty lacked--for Janet's beauty
depended upon those fragilities, coloring and contour. Adelaide was not
notably vain, had a clear sense of her defects, tended to exaggerate
them, rather than her many and decisive good points. It was not Janet's
appearance that unsettled Del; she brought into the room the atmosphere
Del had breathed during all those important years of girlhood, and had
not yet lost her fondness for. It depressed her at once about herself to
note how this vision of the life that had been but would never be again
affected her.

"You are sad, dear," said Janet, as she kissed her on both cheeks with a
diffusing of perfume that gave her a sense of a bouquet of priceless
exotics waving before her face.

"You are sad, dear," she repeated, with that air of tenderest sympathy
which can be the safest cover for subtle malice.

Adelaide shrank.

"I'm so glad I've come when I may be able to do some good."

Adelaide winced.

"How cozy these rooms are--"

At "cozy" Adelaide shuddered. No one ever used, except apologetically,
that word, which is the desperate last resort of compliment.

"And what a beautiful view from the windows--so much better than ours at
the pompous old Bristol, looking out on that bare square!"

Adelaide laughed. Not by chance, she knew, did Miss Janet, with her
softly sheathed but swift and sharp cat claws, drag in the delicate hint
that while Adelaide was "cozy" in an unaristocratic _maison meublee_, she
herself was ensconced in the haunts of royalty; and it suddenly came back
to Del how essentially cheap was "aristocracy."

"But I mustn't look at those adorable gardens," continued Janet. "They
fill me with longing for the country, for the pure, simple things. I am
so sick of the life mamma and I lead. And you are married to dear
Dory--how romantic! And I hear that Arthur is to marry Margaret
Schultz--or whatever her name was--that splendid creature! She was a
_dear_ friend of the trained nurse I had last spring, and what the nurse
told me about her made me positively love her. Such character! And
ge