IX

           CHARITYsatbeforethemirrortryingonahatwhichAllyHawes,withmuchsecrecy,hadtrimmedforher.Itwasofwhitestraw,withadroopingbrimandcherry-colouredliningthatmadeherfaceglowliketheinsideoftheshellontheparlourmantelpiece.

           Sheproppedthesquareoflooking-glassagainstMr.Royall’sblackleatherBible,steadyingitinfrontwithawhitestoneonwhichaviewoftheBrooklynBridgewaspainted;andshesatbeforeherreflection,bendingthebrimthiswayandthat,whileAllyHawes’spalefacelookedoverhershoulderliketheghostofwastedopportunities.

           “Ilookawful,don’tI?”shesaidatlastwithahappysigh.

           Allysmiledandtookbackthehat.“I’llstitchtherosesonrighthere,so’syoucanputitawayatonce.”

           Charitylaughed,andranherfingersthroughherroughdarkhair.SheknewthatHarneylikedtoseeitsreddishedgesruffledaboutherforeheadandbreakingintolittleringsatthenape.ShesatdownonherbedandwatchedAllystoopoverthehatwithacarefulfrown.

           “Don’tyoueverfeellikegoingdowntoNettletonforaday?”sheasked.

           Allyshookherheadwithoutlookingup.“No,IalwaysrememberthatawfultimeIwentdownwithJulia—tothatdoctor’s.”

           “Oh,Ally——”

           “Ican’thelpit.ThehouseisonthecornerofWingStreetandLakeAvenue.Thetrolleyfromthestationgoesrightbyit,andthedaytheministertookusdowntoseethosepicturesIrecognizeditrightoff,andcouldn’tseemtoseeanythingelse.There’sabigblacksignwithgoldlettersallacrossthefront—’PrivateConsultations.