assaulting her afresh in the form of the worst fit of the blues
she had had in two years.

She had been loyally ready to sink her depression in order to
alleviate Aline's, but it was a distinct relief to find that the
feat would not be necessary.

"Never mind," she said. "Tell me what the very little thing was."

"It was only father," said Aline simply.

Joan cast her mind back to the days of school and placed father
as a rather irritable person, vaguely reputed to be something of
an ogre in his home circle.

"Was he angry with you about something?" she asked.

"Not exactly angry with me; but--well, I was there."

Joan's depression lifted slightly. She had forgotten, in the
stunning anguish of the sudden spectacle of that hat and that
tailor-made suit, that Paris hats and hundred-and-twenty-dollar
suits not infrequently had what the vulgar term a string attached
to them. After all, she was independent. She might have to murder
her beauty with hats and frocks that had never been nearer Paris
than the Tottenham Court Road; but at least no one bullied her
because she happened to be at hand when tempers were short.

"What a shame!" she said. "Tell me all about it."