yet filled with artistic productions from dressmakers' shops and milliners.
As Ada stood with her back against the closed door, she could see the set of Stevenson extending for a bright four or five feet along the top of the curtained book-case in which Beatrice kept her carefully treed shoes. The books were like a lovely picture to Ada. She did not know Stevenson well. She wasn't a widely read girl, but in some vague way the exquisitely bound books typified beauty to Ada. Her purchase of them had been simply one of her feeble attempts to free her spirit from the suffocating effect of her surroundings. She crossed the room and took down one of the books. There was a fine powdery coating on its top gilt edge. She blew it away. The same fine white coating was everywhere, on table, shelf, and chiffonier. Such was the case, always, after Beatrice had been dressing. Ada sighed. She longed to purge herself of it all. She opened the book, and buried her nose in it, drawing in a long, deep breath of printer's ink and leather, and shutting out, for a moment, the sweetish odor of Beatrice's new hair tonic.
Two years ago Ada had spent six weeks in a small town in Connecticut with a distant relative whom she called Aunt Harriet. Aunt Harriet lived in a plain, austere little house. She
