Amy lighted the gas logs, Ethel had drawn a quick breath of dismay. But
then she had sharply told herself:

"This isn't an old frame house in Ohio, this is a gay little place in
New York! You're going to love it, living here! And you're pretty much
of a kid, my dear, to be criticizing like an old maid!" She had gone
into Amy's room, and there her mood had quickly changed. For the
curtains and the deep soft rug, the broad low dressing table with its
drop-light shaded in chintz, the curious gold lacquered chair, the
powder boxes, brushes, trays, the faint delicious perfume of the place;
and back in the shadow, softly curtained, the low wide luxurious
bed--had given to her the feeling that this room at least was personal.
Here two people had really lived--a man and a woman. There had come
into Ethel's brown eyes a mingling of confused delight and awkward
admiration. And her sister, with a quick look and a smile, had lost the
slightly ruffled expression her face had worn in the other rooms. She
had regained her ascendancy.

It had not been until Ethel was left in her own small room adjoining,
that with an exclamation of remembrance and surprise she had stopped
undressing, opened her door and listened in the silence. "How perfectly
uncanny!" Frowning a moment, puzzled, her eye had gone to the only other
room in the apartment, down at the end of the narrow hall. The door had
been closed. She had stolen to it and listened, but at first she had
not heard a sound. Then she had given a slight start, had knocked
softly and asked, "May I come in?" A woman's voice with a hostile note
had replied, "Yes, ma'am." She had entered. And a moment later, down
on her knees before a grave little girl of two who sat at a tiny table
soberly having her supper, Ethel had cried: