ll him you're busy
getting married this week and next, and that, by a singular
coincidence, your partner is similarly engaged; that our manager will
attend to him with all care and courtesy, unless he can postpone his
trip until our return. Suggest that he call around a week or two
later."

"T. A. Buck, I know it isn't considered good form to rage and glare at
one's fiance on the eve of one's wedding-day. If this were a week
earlier or a week later, I'd be tempted to--shake you!"

Buck stood up, came over to her, and laid a hand very gently on her
arm. With the other hand he took the letter from her fingers.

"Emma, you're tired, and a little excited. You've been under an
unusual physical and mental strain for the last few weeks. Give me
that letter. I'll answer it. This kind of thing"--he held up the
letter--"has meant everything to you. If it had not, where would I be
to-day? But to-night, Emma, it doesn't mean a thing. Not--one thing."

Slowly Emma McChesney's tense body relaxed. A great sigh that had in
it weariness and relief and acquiescence came from her. She smiled ever
so faintly.

"I've been a ramrod so long it's going to be hard to learn to be a
clinging vine. I've been my own support for so many years, I don't use
a trellis very gracefully--yet. But I think I'll get the hang of it
very soon."

She turned toward the door, crossed to her own office, looked all about
at the orderly, ship-shape room that reflected her personality--as did
any room she occupied.

"Just the same," she called out, over her shoulder, to Buck in the
doorway, "I hate like fury to see that order slide."

In hat and coat and furs she stood a moment, her fingers on the
electric switch, her eyes very bright and wide. The memories of ten
years, fifteen years, twenty years crowded up around her and filled the
little room. Some of them were golden and some of them were black; a
few had power to frighten her, even now. So she turned out the light,
stood for just another moment there in the darkness, then stepped out
into the hall, closed the door softly behind her, and stood face to
face with the lettering on the glass panel of the door--the lettering
that spelled the name, "MRS. MCCHESNEY."

T. A. Buck watched her in silence. She reached up with one wavering
forefinger and touched each of the twelve letters, one after the other.
Then she spread her hand wide, blotting out the second word. And when
she turned away