She was moving away, but Fan, stung by a reproach so cruelly unjust,
started to her feet with a cry of passion.

"Yes, I know you gave me these things--oh, I wish I could tear off this
dress you gave me! And this is the money you gave me--take it! I hate
it!" And drawing her purse from her pocket, she flung it down at Miss
Starbrow's feet. Then, searching for something else to fling back to the
donor, she drew out that crumpled pink paper which had been all the time
in her pocket. "And take this too--the wicked telegram you sent me. It is
yours, like the money--take it, you bad, hateful woman!"

Miss Starbrow still remained standing near, watching her, and in spite of
her own great anger, she could not help feeling very much astonished at
such an outburst of fury from a girl who had always seemed to her so
mild-spirited. She touched the crumpled piece of paper with her foot,
then glanced back at the girl seated again with bowed head and covered
face. What had she meant by a telegram? Curiosity overcame the impulse to
walk away, and stooping, she picked up the paper and smoothed it out and
read, "From Miss Starbrow, Twickenham. To Miss Affleck, Dawson Place."

She had not been to Twickenham, and had sent no telegram to Fan. Then she
read the message and turned the paper over, and read it again and again,
glancing at intervals at the girl. Then she went up to her and put her
hand on her shoulder. Fan started and shook the hand off, and raised her
eyes wet with tears and red with weeping, but still full of anger.

Miss Starbrow caught her by the arm. "Tell me what this means--this
telegram; when did you get it, and who gave it to you?" she said in such
a tone that the girl was compelled to obey.