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Miss Bart accepted the cup of tea, but put back the cushion with an impatient hand.

“Don’t give me that! I don’t want to lean back—I shall go to sleep if I do.”

“Well, why not, dear? I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” Gerty urged affectionately.

“No—no; don’t be quiet; talk to me—keep me awake! I don’t sleep at night, and in the afternoon a dreadful drowsiness creeps over me.”

“You don’t sleep at night? Since when?”

“I don’t know—I can’t remember.” She rose and put the empty cup on the tea-tray. “Another, and stronger, please; if I don’t keep awake now I shall see horrors tonight—perfect horrors!”

“But they’ll be worse if you drink too much tea.”

“No, no—give it to me; and don’t preach, please,” Lily returned imperiously. Her voice had a dangerous edge, and Gerty noticed that her hand shook as she held it out to receive the second cup.

“But you look so tired: I’m sure you must be ill—”

Miss Bart set down her cup with a start. “Do I look ill? Does my face show it?” She rose and walked quickly toward the little mirror above the writing-table. “What a horrid looking-glass—it’s all blotched and discoloured. Anyone would look ghastly in it!” She turned back, fixing her plaintive eyes on Gerty. “You stupid dear, why do you say such odious things to me? It’s enough to make one ill to be told one looks so! And looking ill means looking ugly.” She caught Gerty’s wrists, and drew her close to the window. “After all, I’d rather know the truth. Look me straight in the face, Gerty, and tell me: am I perfectly frightful?”

“You’re perfectly beautiful now, Lily: your eyes are shining, and your cheeks have grown so pink all of a sudden—”

“Ah, they were pale, then—ghastly pale, when I came in? Why don’t you tell me frankly that I’m a wreck? My eyes are bright now because I’m so nervous—but in the mornings they look like lead. And I can see the lines coming in my face—thelines of worry and disappointment and failure! Every sleepless night leaves a new one—and how can I sleep, when I have such dreadful things to think about?”

“Dreadful things—what things?” asked Gerty, gently detaching her wrists from her friend’s feverish fingers.

“What things? Well, poverty, for one—and I don’t know any that’s more dreadful.” Lily turned away and sank with sudden weariness into the easy-chair near the tea-table. “You asked me just now if I could understand why Ned Silverton spent so much money. Of course I understand—he spends it on living with the rich. You think we live on the rich, rather than with them: and so we do, in a sense—but it’s a privilege we have to pay for! We eat their dinners, and drink their wine, and smoke their cigarettes, and use their carriages and their opera-boxes and their private cars—yes, but there’s a tax to pay on every one of those luxuries. The man pays it by big tips to the servants, by playing cards beyond his means, by flowers and presents—and—and—lots of other things that cost; the girl pays it by tips and cards too—oh, yes, I’ve had to take up bridge again—and by going to the best dress-makers, and having just the right dress for every occasion, and always keeping herself fresh and exquisite and amusing!”

She leaned back for a moment, closing her eyes, and as she sat there, her pale lips slightly parted, and the lids dropped above her flagged brilliant gaze, Gerty had a startled perception of the change in her face—of the way in which an ashen daylight seemed suddenly to extinguish its artificial brightness. She looked up, and the vision vanished.

“It doesn’t sound very amusing, does it? And it isn’t—I’m sick to death of it! And yet the thought of giving it all up nearly kills me—it’s what keeps me awake at night, and makes me so crazy for your strong tea. For I can’t go on in this way much longer, you know—I’m nearly at the end of my tether. And then what can I do—how on earth am I to keep myself alive? I see myself reduced to the fate of that poor Silverton woman—slinking about to employment agencies, and trying to sell