"You can have mine," said Miss Mary quietly. "I have no money and I must go."
Mrs. Palmer looked shrewdly at her.
"What made you think you had, before?" she said.
"I had some valuable jewelry—I expected to sell it. It must have been stolen before I got here. I have nothing here to pay with, but I can send it back to you from New York."
"Folks rich?" asked Mrs. Palmer.
Miss Mary nodded carelessly. That people should be rich was nothing to her, and the practiced landlady saw this in a twinkling: no protestations could have proved so much.
"But you don't get on well, I s'pose," she suggested.
"No. We don't get on well," Miss Mary repeated dully.
"I guess it's often so," said the other. Her placid acceptance of these facts was very comforting to Miss Mary. She did not realise how different she herself was from the vague, scared woman of a week ago; nor how her quiet, well-dressed taciturnity impressed Mrs. Palmer.
"You find this agrees with you here, don't you?" the landlady asked, tapping her teeth with a key, thoughtfully.