She could not go back to the room. Slowly and thoughtfully she crossed
the street and retraced her steps on the other side. What was she to
do? She could not go back. Not under any circumstances. The friends
she had were mere casual acquaintances; she could not call on them.

She passed out into the more crowded district again. She began to be a
little perturbed, forgot her anger; at least it was dimmed. Coming to
Spruce Street she saw the usual crowd of men hanging about the door of
the Ardmore. They always stood there, clustered about on the steps,
with their cigarettes and their half-burned cigars and their flashy
clothes and their burnt-out eyes and their appraising looks. For a
moment she contemplated crossing the street to avoid running the
gauntlet of their inspection. Where would she go then? Farther south
it was darker and more unfriendly, with great stretches of shade and
silence. She paused for a moment on the corner and watched the throng
about the steps across the street. People were hurrying in and out;
motors were humming; trolley gongs were clanging. She felt a sudden
fear of it, that familiar neighbourhood with the tea room less than a
block away. Hot, flushed, nervous, excited, she wanted to run
somewhere, slink down into a cool, quiet shelter as had the cat she
had seen from the window earlier in the evening. The world was a cruel
place. One had to know how to get along in it. Every scrap of
assurance seemed to have left her.

Suddenly she turned to the right and walked down Spruce Street. She
came to the lobby of the Patterson and walked boldly in. With her
pulses hammering she went up to the desk, took the pen, and signed
her name to the register.

A level-eyed man with a very naked head came forward and considered
her. His face was as cryptic as the outline on a mummy case. It was as
easy to read his thoughts. He merely inclined his head and looked
slightly away, suggesting that his ear was hers if she so desired.

"Single room with bath," faltered Mary Louise.

The clerk resumed his upright position. He looked at her gravely as
though she had said, "What will you take for your hotel?" He looked
past her into the vast stretches of the lobby and found there much for
philosophic speculation. Thus absorbed, he asked vacantly, "Any
luggage?"

"No," said Mary Louise. "I--it will be here in the morning."

He turned and stepped back into the sanctum of interwoven grilles and
partitions.

Mary Lo