Mrs. Heriot rose as her niece sat down on the footstool just below the writing-table.
'Where did you go—dressed like that?' the girl asked.
'Down among the homeless women, on a wet night, looking for shelter.'
'Jean!' called Mrs. Heriot.
'No wonder you've been ill,' Lady John interposed hastily.
'And it's like that?' Jean spoke under her breath.
'No,' came the answer, in the same hushed tone.
'No?'
'It's so much worse I dare not tell about it, even if you weren't here I couldn't.'
But Mrs. Heriot's anger was unappeased. 'You needn't suppose, darling, that those wretched creatures feel it as we would.'