carry the burden of the world, but she could not find it.
Often the sight of black-clad matrons on the street, a glimpse of lace curtains in drawing-room windows, or the fragrance of tea in her own studio, brought back a sudden sense of home. Remorse for her desertion always mingled with thankfulness for her escape.
"I can never go back," she said often to herself, "to waste my days in planning clothes and making formal calls."
Bravely persisting in her search for service, she joined the Women's League. She employed every pretext for making the acquaintance of the artists in the building, and, in a fit of renunciation, she gave her sealskin cape to Annabel.
Annabel had become a familiar figure in her world. One afternoon, when the three friends were talking in Anne Bradford's studio, the child entered and put down her bundle with an air of great importance.
"I can't bring your laundry on Saturday
