"Something is the matter with you this evening, Zoe," he said
anxiously. "Tell me what it is. You don't like this place, perhaps?"

"Of course I do."

"It is your dinner, then, or me?" he persisted. "Come, out with it.
Haven't we promised to tell each other the truth always?"

The pink color came slowly into her cheeks. Her eyes, raised for a
moment to his, were almost reproachful.

"You know very well that it is not anything to do with you," she
whispered. "You are too kind to me all the time. Only," she went
on, a little hesitatingly, "don't you realize - can't you see how
differently most of the girls here are dressed? I don't mind so
much for myself - but you - you have so many friends. You keep on
seeing people whom you know. I am afraid they will think that I
ought not to be here."

He looked at her in surprise, mingled, perhaps, with compunction.
For the first time he appreciated the actual shabbiness of her
clothes. Everything about her was so neat - pathetically neat, as
it seemed to him in one illuminating moment of realization. The
white linen collar, notwithstanding its frayed edges, was spotlessly
clean. The black bow was carefully tied to conceal its worn parts.
Her gloves had been stitched a good many times. Her gown, although
it was tidy, was old-fashioned and had distinctly seen its best days.
He suddenly recognized the effort - the almost despairing effort -
which her toilette had cost her.