"It is not friendship," she argued fiercely. "It is not charity,
it is not humanity. It's the debt I owe, that's all. She did the
thing for me that I could not have done myself because I loved him.
I owe her something for that."

Later on she turned her attention to the trunks. Her decision was
made. With ruthless hands she dragged gown after gown from the
"innovations" and cast them over chairs, on the floor, across the
foot of the bed: smart things from Paris and Vienna; ball gowns,
street gowns, tea gowns, lingerie, blouses, hats, gloves and all
of the countless things that a woman of fashion and means indulges
herself in when she goes abroad for that purpose and no other to
speak of. From the closets she drew forth New York "tailor-suits"
and other garments.

Until long after six o'clock she busied herself over this huge
pile of costly raiment, portions of which she had worn but once or
twice, some not at all, selecting certain dresses, hats, stockings,
etc., each of which she laid carelessly aside: an imposing pile of
many hues, all bright and gay and glittering. In another heap she
laid the sombre things of black: a meagre assortment as compared
to the other.

Then she stood back and surveyed the two heaps with tired eyes, a
curious, almost scornful smile on her lips. "There!" she said with
a sigh. "The black pile is mine, the gay pile is yours," she went
on, turning toward the sleeping girl. "What a travesty!"

Then she gathered up the soiled garments her charge had worn and
cast them into the bottom of a trunk, which she locked. Laying out