Hilda's memory rushed strangely to Victor Hugo.

She was experiencing the same utter desolation--but somehow less noble--as had gripped her when she first realized the eternal picture, in _Oceana Nox_, of the pale-fronted widows who, tired of waiting for those whose barque had never returned out of the tempest, talked quietly among themselves of the lost--stirring the cinders in the fireplace and in their hearts....

Yet Sarah Gailey was not even a widow.

She was an ageing dancing-mistress.
She had once taught the grace of rhythmic movement to young limbs; and now she was rheumatic.
"Nobody but Mr.Cannon can do anything," Janet murmured.
"I'm sure he hasn't the slightest idea--not the slightest!" said Hilda half defensively.

But she was saying to herself: "This man made me write a lie, and now I hear that his sister is starving--in the same town!" And she thought of his glossy opulence.