It had been Sally's intention, on arriving in New York, to take a roomat the St. Regis and revel in the gilded luxury to which her wealthentitled her before moving into the small but comfortable apartmentwhich, as soon as she had the time, she intended to find and make herpermanent abode. But when the moment came and she was giving directionsto the taxi-driver at the dock, there seemed to her somethingrevoltingly Fillmorian about the scheme. It would be time enough tosever herself from the boarding-house which had been her home for threeyears when she had found the apartment. Meanwhile, the decent thing todo, if she did not want to brand herself in the sight of her conscienceas a female Fillmore, was to go back temporarily to Mrs. Meecher'sadmirable establishment and foregather with her old friends. After all,home is where the heart is, even if there are more prunes there than thegourmet would consider judicious.

　　Perhaps it was the unavoidable complacency induced by the thought thatshe was doing the right thing, or possibly it was the tinglingexpectation of meeting Gerald Foster again after all these weeks ofseparation, that made the familiar streets seem wonderfully bright asshe drove through them. It was a perfect, crisp New York morning, allblue sky and amber sunshine, and even the ash-cans had a stimulatinglook about them. The street cars were full of happy people rollickingoff to work: policemen directed the traffic with jaunty affability: andthe white-clad street-cleaners went about their poetic tasks with aquiet but none the less noticeable relish. It was improbable that any ofthese people knew that she was back, but somehow they all seemed to bebehaving as though this were a special day.

　　The first discordant note in this overture of happiness was struck byMrs. Meecher, who informed Sally, after expressing her gratification atthe news that she required her old room, that Gerald Foster had lefttown that morning.

　　"Gone to Detroit, he has," said Mrs. Meecher. "Miss Doland, too." Shebroke off to speak a caustic word to the boarding-house handyman, who,with Sally's trunk as a weapon, was depreciating the value of thewall-paper in the hall. "There's that play of his being tried out there,you know, Monday," resumed Mrs. Meecher, after the handyman had bumpedhis way up the staircase. "They been rehearsing ever since you left."Sally was disappointed, but it was such a beautiful morning, and NewYork was so wonderful after the dull voyage in the liner that she wasnot going to allow herself to be depressed without good reason. Afterall, she could go on to Detroit tomorrow. It was nice to have somethingto which she could look forward.

　　"Oh, is Elsa in the company?" she said.

　　"Sure. And very good too, I hear." Mrs. Meecher kept abreast oftheatrical gossip. She was an ex-member of the profession herself,having been in the first production of "Florodora," though, unlikeeverybody else, not one of the original Sextette. "Mr. Faucitt was downto see a rehearsal, and he said Miss Doland was fine. And he's not easyto please, as you know.""How is Mr. Faucitt?"Mrs. Meecher, not unwillingly, for she was a woman who enjoyed thetragedies of life, made her second essay in the direction of loweringSally's uplifted mood.