Miss Robinson was a middle-aged American lady who lived in Paris, and had long urged Althea to settle there near her.

Ten years ago, when she had first met Miss Robinson in Boston, Althea had thought her a brilliant and significant figure; but she had by now met too many of her kind--in Rome, in Florence, in Dresden--to feel any wish for a more intimate relationship.

She was fond of Miss Robinson, but she prayed that fate did not reserve for her a withering to the like brisk, colourless spinsterhood.

This hope, the necessity for such hope, was the final depth of her gloomy mood, and she found herself looking at something very dark as she stood holding Miss Robinson's expensive roses.

For, after all, what was going to become of her?
The final depth shaped itself to-day in more grimly realistic fashion than ever before: what was she going to do with herself, in the last resort, unless something happened?
Her mind dwelt upon all the visible alternatives.