"He! You've taken up with him again! The man who saw your stepfather send you to the refuge and never lifted a finger—"
"Don't!"
"Who let his child—"
"Stop, I tell you!" She barred Jean's lips passionately. "You see! Is it any wonder I couldn't bear to tell you? I wish to God I'd never said a word."
Jean stared blankly at this lamb turned lioness.
"Forgive me," she begged. "Perhaps I don't understand."
"Understand! You!" She laughed hysterically, "Yet you're going to be married! If you loved Paul Bartlett, you'd understand."
"You must not say that."
"Then don't say things that hurt me. Understand! If you did, you would know that it would make no difference if he was rotten clear through. But he's not. Fred never knew about the baby. He cried when he heard—cross my heart, he did. He said if he'd known—but what's the use of digging up the past! He is trying to make up for it now. He's been trying ever since we ran across each other again. It was in the cloak department he caught sight of me," she digressed with a pale smile. "I was wearing a white broadcloth, sable-trimmed evening wrap, and maybe he didn't stare! He couldn't do enough for me. That's where the new clothes came from. I could have had money if I'd wanted it—money to burn, for he makes a lot; but I wouldn't touch it. It would have looked—oh, you see for yourself I could not take money. You don't sell love, real love, and God knows mine is real! I've never stopped loving him. I never can."
She, too, it appeared when she grew more calm, aspired to be mistress of a flat.