And there stood Hilda, immature, graceless, harsh, inelegant, dowdy, holding the letter between her inky fingers, in the midst of all that hard masculine mess,--and a part of it, the blindly devoted subaltern, who could expect none of the ritual of homage given to women, who must sit and work and stand and strain and say 'yes,' and pretend stiffly that she was a sound, serviceable, thick-skinned imitation man among men! If Hilda had been a valkyrie or a saint she might have felt no envy and no pang.

But she was a woman.

Self-pity shot through her tremendous pride; and the lancinating stab made her inattentive even to her curiosity concerning the purpose of Janet's visit.
III "I came to see Mr.Cannon," said Janet.

"The housekeeper downstairs told me he was here somewhere." "He's engaged," answered Hilda in a low voice, with the devotee's instinct to surround her superior with mystery.
"Oh!" murmured Janet, checked.
Hilda wondered furiously what she could be wanting with Mr.Cannon.
Janet recommenced: "It's really about Miss Gailey, you know." "Yes--what ?" Hilda nodded eagerly, speaking in a tone still lower and more careful.
Janet dropped her voice accordingly: "She's Mr.Cannon's sister, of course ?" "Half-sister." "I mean.

I've just come away from seeing her." She hesitated.