Nora had not long been gone to church before Miss Harding became sufficiently¹ cured of her headache to permit of her quitting her own apartment. Perhaps she was of opinion that fresh air would do it good; and, notoriously, fresh air is good for headaches; certainly she looked very far from well. She donned her smartest hat, and one of her prettiest frocks, relinquishing², for the nonce, the black dress she had been wearing for her lately departed host. She attired³ herself with the greatest care, giving minute attention to those small details which mean so much; possibly she was under the impression that costume might have something to do with a cure--yet all her care could not conceal⁴ the fact that she was looking ill. When she saw how white she was, and the black marks under the eyes--and actually wrinkles in the corners, and how thin and worn and pinched her face seemed to have suddenly become, she could have cried, only she was painfully conscious that tears had already had too large a share in bringing her to the state in which she was. If she could she would have "assisted nature," only she had nothing with which to do it. Nora's opinions on the subject of "aids to beauty" were strong; Elaine had frequently declared that hers were even stronger. That was the worst of being in the position of "humble⁵ friend"; one had sometimes to pretend that one thought what one really did not think, or so it seemed to her. If she had only had a little "something," in a jar, or in a tube, or a stick, or anything--but she would not have dared to run the risk of allowing Nora to find such a thing in her possession. Moreover, until then she had never wanted it. Still, if she had been left alone--that was how she put it--she might have had it by her. Now that she really wanted something, she had absolutely not a thing--obviously the fault of that was Nora's.