"I'm going back to London to-morrow," she announced.
"Oh, Ellen, why? I thought you were enjoying yourself so much."
"I'm miserable here. Nobody wants me."
"Oh, but you're wrong. I——"
She strode across to Millie's dressing-table. "No, you don't. Don't lie about it. Do you think I haven't eyes?"
Suddenly she sank on to the floor, burying her head in Millie's lap, bursting into desperate crying.
"Oh, I'm so lonely—so miserable. Why did I ever come here? Nobody wants me. They'd rather I was dead. . . . They say work—find work, they say. What are you doing thinking about love with your plain face and ugly body? This is the Twentieth Century, they say, the time for women like you. Every woman's free now. Free? How am I free? Work? What work can I do? I was never trained to anything. I can't even write letters decently. When I work the others laugh at me—I'm so slow. I want some one to love—some one, something. I can't keep even a dog because Victoria doesn't like dogs. . . . Millie, be kind to me a little—let me love you a little, do things for you, run messages, anything. You're so beautiful. Every one loves you. Give me a little. . . ."
Millie comforted her as best she might. She stroked her hair and kissed her, petted her, but, as before, in her youth and confidence she felt some contempt for Ellen.
"Get up," she whispered. "Ellen, dear, don't kneel like that. Please. . . . Please."
Ellen got up.