She rang the bell for her maid. Connie rose from the bed. She longed to make some appeal to the other's softer nature for her own sake, as she had held Jimmie very dear and felt the need of sympathy in her trouble and disillusion.
But knowing that from the rock of that cynical mood no water would gush forth for any one's magic, she recognised the inefficacy of her own guileless arts, and forbore to exercise them. She sighed for answer. By chance her glance fell upon Norma's skirt. Human instinct, not altogether feminine, seized upon the trivial.
“Why, whatever have you been doing to your dress?”
Norma looked down, and for the first time noticed the disfiguring smears of blood.
“I must have spilt something,” she said, turning away quickly, and beginning to unfasten the hooks and eyes of her neckband.
“I hope it will come out,” said Connie. “It's such a pretty frock.”
As soon as she was alone, Norma looked at the stains with unutterable repulsion. She tore off the dress feverishly and threw it into a corner. When her maid entered in response to her summons, she pointed to the shapeless heap of crêpe and embroidery.
“Take that away and burn it,” she said.