SHE had lived in Washington for a year. She was tired of the office. It was tolerable, far more tolerable than housework, but it was not adventurous¹.
She was having tea and cinnamon toast, alone at a small round table on the balcony of Rauscher’s Confiserie. Four debutantes² clattered³ in. She had felt young and dissipated, had thought rather well of her black and leaf-green suit, but as she watched them, thin of ankle, soft under the chin, seventeen or eighteen at most, smoking cigarettes with the correct ennui⁴ and talking of “bedroom farces” and their desire to “run up to New York and see something racy,” she became old and rustic⁵ and plain, and desirous of retreating from these hard brilliant children to a life easier and more sympathetic. When they flickered⁶ out and one child gave orders to a chauffeur⁷, Carol was not a defiant⁸ philosopher but a faded government clerk from Gopher Prairie, Minnesota
She started dejectedly up Connecticut Avenue. She stopped, her heart stopped. Coming toward her were Harry⁹ and Juanita Haydock. She ran to them, she kissed Juanita, while Harry confided¹⁰, “Hadn’t expected to come to Washington — had to go to New York for some buying — didn’t have your address along — just got in this morning — wondered how in the world we could get hold of you.”
She was definitely sorry to hear that they were to leave at nine that evening, and she clung to them as long as she could. She took them to St. Mark’s for dinner. Stooped, her elbows on the table, she heard with excitement that “Cy Bogart had the ‘flu, but of course he was too gol-darn mean to die of it.”

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