“Probably not,” said Angela, her heart cold. Her little sister was engaged and she was learning of it from strangers. It was all she could do to hold back the tears. “But you’ve only yourself to blame,” she reminded herself valiantly.
The two girls came back; Virginia still laughing but underneath the merriment Angela was able to detect a flurry of nervousness. After all, Jinny was just a child. And she was so happy, it would never do to mar that happiness by the introduction of the slightest gloom or discomfort. Her caller rose to her feet. “I guess I’ll be going.”
Virginia made no effort to detain her, but the glance which she turned on her sister was suddenly very sweet and friendly. “Here, I’ll run down to the door with you. Sara, be a darling and pick out the best of those stockings for me, put in lots. You know how hard I am on them.”
Out in the hall she flung an impulsive arm about her sister. “Oh, Angela, I’m so happy, so happy. I’m going to write you about it right away, you’ll be so surprised.” Astonishingly she gave the older girl a great hug, kissed her again and again.
“Oh,” said Angela, the tears welling from her eyes, “Oh Jinny, you do forgive me, you do, you do? I’m so sorry about it all. I’ve been wretched for a long time. I thought I had lost you, Virginia.”
“I know,” said Jinny, “I’m a hard-hearted little wretch.” She giggled through her own tears, wiped them away with the back of her childish bronze hand. “I was just putting you through; I knew you’d get sick of Miss Anne’s folks and come back to me. Oh Angela, I’ve wanted you so. But it’s all right now. I won’t be back for ten weeks, but then we will talk! I’ve got the most marvellous plans for both of us—for all of us.” She looked like a wise baby. “You’ll get a letter from me in a few days telling you all about it. Angela, I’m so happy, but I must fly. Goodbye, darling.”
They clung for a moment in the cool, dim depths of the wide hall.
Angela could have danced in the street. As it was she walked gaily down Seventh Avenue to 110th Street and into the bosky reaches of the park. Jinny had forgiven her. Jinny longed for her, needed her; she had known all along that Angela was suffering, had deliberately punished her. Well, she was right, everything was right this glorious memorable day. She was to have a sister again, someone of her own, she would know the joy of sharing her little triumphs, her petty woes. Wise Jinny, wonderful Jinny!
And beautiful Jinny, too, she thought. How lovely, how dainty, how fresh and innocent her little sister seemed. This brought her mind to Matthew and his great good fortune. “I’d like to see him again,” she mused, smiling mischievously. “Doubtless he’s forgotten me. It would be great fun to make him remember.” Only, of course, now he was Jinny’s and she would never get in the way of that darling. “Not even if he were someone I really wanted with all my heart and soul. But I’d never want Matthew.” It would be fun, she thought, to see him again. He would make a nice brother, so sturdy and kind and reliable. She must be careful never to presume on that old youthful admiration of his. Smiling and happy she reached her house, actually skipped up the steps to her rooms. Her apartment no longer seemed lonely; it was not beautiful and bright like Jinny’s but it was snug and dainty. It would be fun to have Virginia and Sara down; yes, and that new girl, that Miss Andrews, too. She didn’t care what the other people in the house thought. And the girls themselves, how astonished they would be to learn the true state of affairs! Suddenly remembering Mrs. Denver, she ran up to see her; that lady, in spite of her wealth and means for self-indulgence, was palpably lonely. Angela cheered her up with mirthful accounts of her own first days in New York; she’d been lonely too, she assured her despondent hostess, sparkling and fascinating.
“I don’t see how anybody with a disposition like yours could ever be lonely,” said Mrs. Denver enviously. She’d been perilously near tears all day.
Gone, gone was all the awful melancholy, the blueness that had hung about her like a palpable cloud. She was young, fascinating; she was going to be happy—again. Again! She caught her breath at that. Oh, God was good! This feeling of lightness, of exaltation had been unknown to her so long; not since the days when she had first begun to go about with Roger had she felt so free, birdlike. In the evening Ralph Ashley came with his car and drove her halfway across Long Island, or so it seemed. They stopped at a gorgeous hotel and had a marvellous supper. Ashley was swept off his feet by her gay vitalness. In the doorway of the Jayne Street house she gave him her hand and a bewitching smile. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve enjoyed myself. I’ll always remember it.” And she spoke sincerely, for soon this sort of thing would be far behind her.
“You’re a witch,” said Ashley, his voice shaking a little. “You can have this sort of thing whenever you want it and you know it. Be kind to me, Angèle. I’m not a bad fellow.” Frightened, she pushed him away, ran in and slammed the door. No, no, no, her heart pounded. Roger had taught her an unforgettable lesson. Soon she’d be with Jinny and Matthew, safe, sheltered.
III
In the middle of the night she found herself sitting up in bed. A moment before she had been asleep, but a sudden thought had pierced
