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Patricia leaned back against the window frame and nodded her head. Her lips curled back from her teeth, as she looked her late employer up and down with disgust.

“Did Mrs. Langham tell you all that? You fatten on her and her kind, so I suppose you feel compelled to believe her? It must have been an expensive telegram.”

“Well, are they lies?” demanded Mr. Ezekiel.

“The lady never lies, Mr. Ezekiel. She has told you so herself. Stay in New Plymouth for a little while and learn the extent of her fashionable-following. Examine your books and see how much her husband has paid you, and how much she owes you.”

She straightened and laughed rather hysterically.

“But we are forgetting,” she added bitterly. “This is a depot for charitable relief. Let us be charitable!”

She reached for her hat.

Mrs. Langham and her old friends looked upon her preparations for departure in the approving silence which had wrapped them since Mr. Ezekiel took her in hand. All were glad that she had been adequately punished. All were glad to see her go—she made their most expensive gowns appear dowdy by contrast with her own stylish attire.

Patricia paused on her way to the door to address her victorious enemy.

“The end of the third, and final, round, Mrs, Langham. It’s been an interesting fight.”

“And I win, I think, Miss Weybourn,” replied Mrs. Langham complacently, her nose at a crushing elevation. “My dear young lady, whom do you think you are to dare pit yourself against society? I hope you have learned a lesson. Good-morning.”

Patricia bowed slightly.

“So glad you feel so happy about it,” she mocked.

She stopped at the door to shake hands with Mr. Langham.

“Good-bye, and thank you,” she said softly.