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more sad than tears. “After passion dies and one’s life is smashed, clothes can still hold an interest for us. Oh, God, what petty creatures women are!”

“Life’s made up of trivial things. If we lose our grip of those, we’re done for.”

Vera made no answer, and Ann, obeying a sudden impulse, went on abruptly:

“That hat would suit you. Take it. I’d like you to have it.”

She thrust the hat into Vera’s hands. Vera remained for a moment holding it, and then suddenly burst into tears.

The hat rolled on the floor between them, and Vera, covering her face, sank back into the chair from which she had risen. Her whole body was shaken and racked with sobs. In a second Ann was beside her, but Vera thrust aside her clinging hands with a sort of fierce anger.

“No, no, don’t touch me,” she gasped out between her sobs. And Ann, repulsed, stood at some little distance helplessly wondering what she could do.

Nothing, apparently!

Nothing, but allow Vera to weep on, alone, and unconsoled. But Ann was wise enough to realize that these tears were, as Ford had expressed it, an outlet and a relief for mental suffering. After a little while Vera partially regained her self-control.

“Of course this has its humorous side,” she said with a laugh that was again to Ann heart-rending. “I tell you that I . . . hate you, and you offer to present me with a hat.”

“I don’t believe you hate me. I’ve never believed it.”

“But you hate me?”