“Mary, you Goth!”

“Or I might sell it.”

“You wouldn’t!”

Mary looked at the shawl. It gave a bizarre air of affluence to the shabby room. It was indeed beautiful.

" I don't know. If I’m hard up I shall sell it at once. Now, I suppose, I must sit down and write an enthusiastic ‘thank you letter’ to Aunt Felicia. Come to think of it, it was rather catty and patronizing of her to send it to me when she knows I’m no longer in a position to wear such things.”

Janet felt that this was an uncomfortable topic.

“She must he awfully rich,” she remarked vaguely.

Mary had seated herself at the table and had drawn the inkstand towards her.

“She is; disgustingly so. She rather disgraced the family by marrying a jam-maker. Not that I blame her for that, if she liked him. She got such a surfeit of jam that it made her sour. That’s a paradox. Do laugh.”

“I don't see that it’s particularly funny. I wonder she doesn’t do something for you if she knows how badly off you are.”

“She does,” said Mary, beginning to write. “She sends me an embroidered shawl. As a matter of fact, she—very kindly—offered to give me a home when my father died.”

“You don’t mean to say you refused?” cried her friend.

“Of course I refused. I thought I’d see something of life on my own.”

“Rich girls often think they’ll like working for their living,” said Janet, nodding. “They soon find out what it’s really like.”

“I never had any illusions about it,” answered Mary. “This is a very difficult letter to write. Fold the shawl up, Janet, and shove it in a drawer.”

Janet obeyed her, but sighed.

“It does seem a shame to put it away.”

“It would be a greater shame to leave it lying about to collect the dust,” said the more practical Mary.

There was silence for a time while Mary chewed her pen, and Janet laid the shawl to rest in the depths of a drawer.

“Mary,” said Janet at last, “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but why do you never see any friends? You must have had quite a lot.”

“Um!’ Mary started to write again. “Not so many as I thought.”

“Why not? What do you mean?” asked Janet.

“Same old tale. Many so-called friends while there was money and position. Then comes the financial smash, the incidental disgrace, and my father’s tragic death. It’s the only grudge I have against father, that he didn’t stay to face the music with me. Anyway, one of the greatest ‘friends’ cut me dead in the street. Others—just kept out of the way. So as soon as I could I turned and ran.”

“They couldn’t all have been so—so beastly!” said Janet.

“I daresay they weren’t. I didn’t wait to see. One or two called. I appreciated their kindness, but I’d realized that—I was no longer a desirable connaissance, so I didn’t see them.”