"You see," pursued Gretchen, still turning over things in the drawer, "it's not quite the same thing as doing your exercises."
"No," agreed Cecily, despondently. Then brightening, "But, Gretchen—if you would—you are so clever. You know all about those statues—and the pictures—and the palaces. You could write about them." She paused breathlessly.
"Oh, yes," replied Miss Verrol carelessly. "I dare say I could—I was considered good at composition—at school. Our relative positions would be somewhat reversed, wouldn't they? I should have to bring these exercises to you, for correction and amendment, and—naturally you are so much better up in the subject."
Another pause.
"No, I really don't think I should dare to let you see my work. There would be so many faults."
She had found the scarf now, and was busy smoothing out its creases.
"You have crushed this dreadfully," she said, reproachfully.
"Oh, you don't think it's important enough to talk about," cried Cecily desperately; "but I can never do it alone. Can't you help me? I shouldn't want to see the letters you wrote, you know," she assured her eagerly. "So"
Gretchen stopped short in the midst of shaking out the filmy folds.
"Not—you mean you would not want to see the letters I wrote to your lover?" she asked incredulously, fixing her eyes on the girl's face.
Cecily blushed painfully.
"No," she hesitated. "Not if you'd rather not. I know it is easier to do everything—if—if people are not watching you. And you will do all the important part, about the statues, beauti-
