Kathleen went slowly into her bedroom. She was gone a great while—perhaps ten actual minutes. When she came back, the rims of her eyes were red. She carried four large pasteboard boxes, tied together with twine. St. Peter sprang up, took the parcel, and began untying the string. He opened the first and pulled out a brown stole. “What is it, mink?”
“No, it’s Hudson Bay sable.”
“Very pretty.” He put the collar round her neck and drew back to look at it.
But after a sharp struggle Kathleen broke down. She threw off the fur and buried her face in a fresh handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy, but it’s no use today. I don’t want any furs, really. She spoils everything for me.”
“Oh, my dear, my dear, you hurt me terribly!”
St. Peter put his hands tenderly on her soft hazel-coloured hair. “Face it squarely, Kitty; you must not, you cannot, be envious. It’s self-destruction.”
“I can’t help it, Father. I am envious. I don’t think I would be if she let me alone, but she comes here with her magnificence and takes the life out of all our poor little things. Everybody knows she’s rich, why does she have to keep rubbing it in?”
“But, Kitty dear, you wouldn’t have her go home and change her coat before coming to see you?”
“Oh, it’s not that, Father, it’s everything! You know we were never jealous of each other at home. I was always proud of her good looks and good taste. It’s not her clothes, it’s a feeling she has inside her. When she comes toward me, I feel hate coming toward me, like a snake’s hate!”