Oh, the things she was going to get fond of! The things that her poor, round foolish eyes gloated upon the moment that she saw them! Joan tried to enlist the shopman on her side, descending even to flirtation. Unfortunately he was a young man with a high sense of duty, convinced that his employer’s interests lay in his support of Mrs. Phillips. The sight of the furniture that, between them, they selected for the dining-room gave Joan a quite distinct internal pain. They ascended to the floor above, devoted to the exhibition of “Recherché drawing-room suites.” Mrs. Phillips’s eye instinctively fastened with passionate desire upon the most atrocious. Joan grew vehement. It was impossible. “And mind your p’s and q’s,” she added. “You’re in a difficult position. And not all the eyes watching you are friendly.”!

“Tell me,” asked Joan, “am I likely to meet with much of that sort of thing?” “I fancy that’s the idea,” said Joan. “What will you do if you fail? Go back to China?”

They formed a curious physical contrast, these two women in this moment. Joan, radiant, serene, sat upright in her chair, her head slightly thrown back, her fine hands clasping one another so strongly that the delicate muscles could be traced beneath the smooth white skin. Madge, with puckered brows, leant forward in a crouching attitude, her thin nervous hands stretched out towards the fire. It seemed to her that it was she that they were laughing at, pointing her out to one another, jeering at her, reviling her, threatening her. “What are you making?” asked Joan.