However Harriet had hardened herself against the girl's arrival, all she
had meant to say fled when she saw Sidney's circled eyes and pathetic
mouth.

"You child!" she said. "You poor little girl!" And took her corseted
bosom.

For the time at least, Sidney's world had gone to pieces about her. All
her brave vaunt of service faded before her disgrace.

When Christine would have seen her, she kept her door locked and asked for
just that one evening alone. But after Harriet had retired, and Mimi, the
Austrian, had crept out to the corner to mail a letter back to Gratz,
Sidney unbolted her door and listened in the little upper hall. Harriet,
her head in a towel, her face carefully cold-creamed, had gone to bed; but
K.'s light, as usual, was shining over the transom. Sidney tiptoed to the
door.

"K.!"

Almost immediately he opened the door.

"May I come in and talk to you?"

He turned and took a quick survey of the room. The picture was against the
collar-box. But he took the risk and held the door wide.

Sidney came in and sat down by the fire. By being adroit he managed to
slip the little picture over and under the box before she saw it. It is
doubtful if she would have realized its significance, had she seen it.

"I've been thinking things over," she said. "It seems to me I'd better not
go back."