just as ignorant of that law which governs the contact of
personalities. It cannot be luck; it cannot be chance. There is too
much method in the mad tumble of it all, too much plot and
counter-plot, too much cunning intent--which even we can
appreciate--for us to think that it has no meaning. Why, the very
wind that blows has its assured direction and carries the pollen of
this flower to the heart of that.

But there is no need to understand it. The thing happens--that is
all. Miss Janet Hallard and Sally are intimates; that is really
sufficient.

Yet they were not really intimate enough as yet for Sally to sit down
on the bed directly she came into the room and break into an excited
description of her adventure. She knew the cold look of inquiry in
Janet's eyes. She could foresee the disconcerting questions that
would be asked. Janet's questions, coming dryly--all on one
note--from those thin lips of hers, drove sometimes to a point that
was almost too deep for Sally's comprehension. And Sally is a woman
of sex, not of intellect.

"You can have the glass now if you want it," said Janet, moving away
to her bed.

Sally rose wearily and began to take off her things.

"I am fagged!" she exclaimed.

Janet said nothing. The blue lines under Sally's eyes, that
indescribable drawing of the flesh of those round cheeks, had told