r."

Mr. Cracknell kicked her on the shin in a dismayed sort of way.

"I never thought of that. Perhaps you're right. But it's too late now.
Still, it might. Or wouldn't it? Which do you think?"

"Yes," said Sally.

"I thought as much," said Mr. Cracknell.

The orchestra stopped with a thump and a bang, leaving Mr. Cracknell
clapping feebly in the middle of the floor. Sally slipped back to her
table. Her late partner, after an uncertain glance about him, as if
he had mislaid something but could not remember what, zigzagged off in
search of his own seat. The noise of many conversations, drowned by the
music, broke out with renewed vigour. The hot, close air was full of
voices; and Sally, pressing her hands on her closed eyes, was reminded
once more that she had a headache.

Nearly a month had passed since her return to Mr. Abrahams' employment.
It had been a dull, leaden month, a monotonous succession of lifeless
days during which life had become a bad dream. In some strange nightmare
fashion, she seemed nowadays to be cut off from her kind. It was weeks
since she had seen a familiar face. None of the companions of her
old boarding-house days had crossed her path. Fillmore, no doubt from
uneasiness of conscience, had not sought her out, and Ginger was working
out his destiny on the south shore of Long Island.

She lowered her hands and opened her eyes and looked at the room. It was
crowded, as always. The Flower Garden was one of the many establishments
of the same kind which had swum to popularity on the rising flood of
New York's dancing craze; and doubtless because, as its proprietor had
claimed, it was a nice place and run nice, it had continued, unlike many
of its rivals, to enjoy unvarying prosperity. In its advertisement,
it described itself as "a supper-club for after-theatre dining and
dancing," adding that "large and spacious, and sumptuously appointed,"
it was "one of the town's wonder-places, with its incomparable
dance-floor, enchanting music, cuisine, and service de luxe." From which
it may be gathered, even without his personal statements to that effect,
that Isadore Abrahams thought well of the place.

There had been a time when Sally had liked it, too. In her first period
of employment there she had found it diverting, stimulating and full of
entertainment. But in those days she had never had headaches or, what
was worse, this dreadful listless depression which weighed her down and
made her nigh