that never enter my
dreams!" Sally exclaimed passionately.

"Bless your heart," said Janet, "facts never do. You take facts as
they come; you act on them instinctively, but you don't realize them.
I _am_ ugly. There's no doubt about it. You don't think I'm ugly,
but you see I am. That prompts your question without knowing it. But
men have made fools of themselves--even over me. There was one man
at the school last year--took a fancy to me, I believe because I was
so ugly. Just like James II. and the ugly maids-of-honour. I was going
to live with him. Can you believe that? And one night at one of the
dances, we were kicking up a row a bit--dancing about as if we were
lunatics--and my hair fell down--there's not much for a pin to stick
into at the best of times. I remember laughing and looking across
the room at him. Well, I saw an expression in his eyes that settled
it. He looked as if he could see me--just like I know I am--in the
mornings when I first wake up--all frowsy and fuddled, with this
little bit of a mat I've got, sticking out in tails, about as long
as your hand, on the pillow. It takes a bit of courage for a man to
even go and live with a woman after he's seen her like that. I assure
you it didn't take me much courage to tell him I'd changed my mind."

Sally watched her and the pain that she felt as she listened furrowed
her brow into frowns. She knew that there was more than this, more
than the bare statement behind this little story. That was Janet's
way of putting it, the way Janet made herself look on at life, the
apparently heartless aspect in which she viewed everything. To
sympathize would only sting her to still more bitter sarcasm. Sally
said nothing, the pity was in her eyes.

"I've never told you that before, have I?" said Janet.

"No."

"And I suppose you're terribly shocked because I even ever thought
of living with a man?"

"No, I'm not. If you loved him and--and he couldn't marry you."

Out of the corner of her eyes Janet watched her, rubbing her face
vigorously with the towel to conceal her observation. In that moment
then, she saw the end of Sally, drew the matter out in her mind, as,
with hurried strokes, she might have sketched a passing face upon
the slip of paper.

"Well, you run on down to breakfast," she said. "You'll be late; it's
five minutes to eight."

A whole week passed by, and Sally heard no more of Traill. Every day,
when she went out to lunch, or left the office a