They were such contrasted types. The blonde gave an appearance of sleek
and moneyed elegance, with carefully undulated hair, a rounded bust, and
pretty features smooth and plump, with a retroussé nose and rich, full
lips, and a manner of easy assurance. The brunette was younger and less
developed, slim and lithe, her curling black hair rebellious, her
features more clean-cut and clear, with wide, eager lips and warm brown
eyes set wide apart.

"Nevertheless, they are sisters," the little lady firmly concluded.
"The family resemblance is quite unmistakable." And frowning in
perplexity, "But if they are sisters," she went on, "why is only one in
mourning?" She looked at the younger of the two, who was simply dressed
in black; and then at the blonde, whose sable cloak put back from her
shoulders revealed a stylish travelling suit. "And why is one rich and
the other poor?"

Meanwhile a young woman nearby, with a fat, discontented face, regarded
the blonde with envy and thought:

"She's an actress with her maid. Why can't Harry allow me a maid, a
real clever one like that? Men see these actresses on the stage and get
to expecting things from their wives--without being willing to pay for
it! Think what that girl could make of me!"

A quiet, able-looking woman sitting just across the aisle, who travelled
for a clothing store, was watching the "maid," the brunette, and was
thinking, "She makes her clothes herself. She has been the beauty of
her small town. She's smart, too, and original. That collar was a
clever idea--and that fichu of lace. A pity she's in mourning."