the somnolent afternoon,
turning down Huron Street. At the remote end of the block and before
her large frame mansion of a thousand angles and wooden lace work, Mrs.
Harvey Herrington's low car sidled to her curb-stone, racy-looking as a
hound. That lady herself, large and modish, was in the act of stepping
up and in.

"Well, Pen Evans! 'Tis writ in the book our paths should cross."

"Who more pleased than I?"

"Which way are you bound?"

"Jenkins' Transfer and Cab Service."

"Jump in."

"No sooner said than done."

Mrs. Herrington threw her clutch and let out a cough of steam. They
jerked and leaped forward. From the rear of the car an orange and black
pennant--_Votes for Women_--stiffened out like a semaphore against the
breeze.

CHAPTER IV. BY DOROTHY CANFIELD

Genevieve Remington sat in her pretty drawing-room and watched the hour
hand of the clock slowly approach five. Five was a sacred hour in her
day. At five George left his office, turned off the business-current
with a click and turned on, full-voltage, the domestic-affectionate.

Genevieve often told her girl friends that she only began really to
live after five, when George was restored to her. She assured them
the psychical connection between George and herself was so close that,
sitting alone in her drawing-room, she could feel a tingling thrill
all over when the clock struck five and George emerged from his office
downtown.

On the afternoon in question she received her five o'clock electric
thrill promptly on time, although history does not record whether or not
George walked out from his office at that moment. With all due respect
for the world-shaking importance of Mr. Remington's movements, it must
be stated that history had, on that afternoon, other more important
events to chronicle.

As the clock struck five, the front doorbell rang. Marie, the maid, went
to open the door. Genevieve adjusted the down-sweeping, golden-brown
tress over her right eye, brushed an invisible speck from the piano,
straightened a rose in a vase, and after these traditionally bridal
preparations, waited with a bride's optimistic smile the advent of a
caller. But it was Marie who appeared at the door, with a stricken face
of horror.

"Mrs. Remington! Mrs. Remington!" she whispered loudly. "They've come to
stay. The men are getting their trunks down from the wagon."

"_Who_ has come to stay? _Where?_" queried the startled bride.

"The two ladies w