"You don't do it every day, do you?"

"Yes, several times."

"How long"--Kathleen's lips almost refused to move--"how long have you
done this?"

"For a long time. I've been ashamed of it. It's--it's the alcohol in it
that I like, isn't it? I never thought of it in that way till now."

Kathleen, on her knees by the bedside, was crying silently. The girl
slipped from her arms, turned partly over, and lying on her back, stared
upward through the darkness.

So this was the secret reason that, unsuspected, had long been stirring
her to instinctive uneasiness, which had made her half ashamed, half
impatient with this silly habit which already inconvenienced her. Yet
even now she could not feel any real alarm; she could not understand
that the fangs of a habit can poison when plucked out. Of course there
was now only one thing to do--keep aloof from everything. That would be
easy. The tingling warmth of the perfume was certainly agreeable, but
she must not risk even such a silly indulgence as that. Really, it was a
very simple matter. She sat up, supporting her weight on one arm.

"Kathleen, darling," she whispered, bending forward and drawing the
elder woman up onto the bed, "you mustn't be frightened about me. I've
learned some things I didn't know. Do you think Duane--" In the darkness
the blood scorched her face, the humiliation almost crushed her. But she
went on: "Do you think Duane suspects that--that----"