foam flung out by the surging wave, stood near enough to overhear. She
turned and threw a glance at the group, in time to catch _en route_ to the
back of her dress a look sent forth from the eyes of Miss Dene. It was
that look which has no family resemblance to any other look, yet is always
the same in the eyes of the best and the worst woman--the look she gives
another woman's dress the style and fit of which fill her with supreme
disgust.

The victim did not take this well-known gaze with meekness. She was a
small person, thin as a lath, with no attempt at complexion, and a way of
doing her hair which alone would have proved impeccable virtue in the face
of incriminating circumstantial evidence. She had neat little features,
and a neat little figure, though "provincial" was written over her in
conspicuous letters; and the gray eyes which she fastened on Miss Dene
looked almost ill with gloomy intelligence. She did not attempt to "down"
the beautifully dressed young woman with a retort, though her expression
betrayed a temptation to be fishwifish. It was evident, however, that she
was a little lady, though she wore a badly made frock, and her hat sat
like a hard, extraneous Bath bun on the top of her neat head. Whether or
no she were a Native Daughter, native good breeding fought with and got
the better of fatigue, nervousness, and irritation. She merely gazed
fixedly for a long second at Miss Dene, as if to say, "I know my dress is
amateurish, and yours is perfectly lovely, but I have a heart and would
hate to hurt the feelings of anybody, especially one who couldn't pay me
back, whereas _your_ only use for a heart is to keep your blood in
circulation."

Angela saw this silent play of weapons, and all her sympathy was with the
stranger in dusty blue alpaca. She busied herself mentally in rearranging
the little woman's hair, dressing her in such a way as to make her quite