least chance of gaining a hearing for her own, some obscure disdain and
reluctance would have restrained her. She knew it was not by
explanations and counter-charges that she could ever hope to recover her
lost standing; but even had she felt the least trust in their efficacy,
she would still have been held back by the feeling which had kept her
from defending herself to Gerty Farish--a feeling that was half pride and
half humiliation. For though she knew she had been ruthlessly sacrificed
to Bertha Dorset's determination to win back her husband, and though her
own relation to Dorset had been that of the merest good-fellowship, yet
she had been perfectly aware from the outset that her part in the affair
was, as Carry Fisher brutally put it, to distract Dorset's attention from
his wife. That was what she was "there for": it was the price she had
chosen to pay for three months of luxury and freedom from care. Her
habit of resolutely facing the facts, in her rare moments of
introspection, did not now allow her to put any false gloss on the
situation. She had suffered for the very faithfulness with which she had
carried out her part of the tacit compact, but the part was not a
handsome one at best, and she saw it now in all the ugliness of failure.

She saw, too, in the same uncompromising light, the train of consequences
resulting from that failure; and these became clearer to her with every
day of her weary lingering in town. She stayed on partly for the comfort
of Gerty Farish's nearness, and partly for lack of knowing where to go.
She understood well enough the nature of the task before her. She must
set out to regain, little by little, the position she had lost; and the
first step in the tedious task was to find out, as soon as possible, on
how many of her friends she could count. Her hopes were mainly centred on
Mrs. Trenor, who had treasures of easy-going tolerance for those who were
amusing or useful to her, and in the noisy rush of whose existence the
still small voice of detraction was slow to make itself heard. But Judy,
though she must have been apprised of Miss Bart's return, had not even
recognized it by the formal note of condolence which her friend's
bereavement demanded. Any advance on Lily's side might have been
perilous: there was nothing to do but to trust to the happy chance of an
accidental meeting, and Lily knew that, even so late in the season, there
was always a hope of running across her friends