of harness. A bit of sentimentality touched her lightly. It would be
good to put the old place on its feet again, free it entirely of debt,
with a little surplus so that there would not be that constant feeling
of strain, of anxiety. This was no life to be living in spite of the
glamour of the city. Every living creature felt the need of home. If
only all she meant to do might not be accomplished too late.

The sharp burr of the telephone startled her and she rose to answer
it, dabbing at her eyes furtively with her handkerchief as she rose.

She met Claybrook in the lobby.

"Hi, there!" he said. "Get your hat. The Thompsons want us to come and
play bridge with them." He squeezed her hand just a little as he
smiled good-naturedly at her with patronizing approval.

"To-night?" she echoed. "In August?"

"Sure," he said. "Why not? It's plenty cool. They've a room on the top
floor of the Ardmore and they keep all the windows open. Never seen
the Thompsons' apartment, have you?"

She shook her head.

"Pretty swell dump. Like to know how much Tommy pays for it. Keeps it
all the year too. They go to Florida for January and February. Want
you to see it. Maybe when the business grows enough you'll be wanting
one like it."

She smiled wanly and pictured herself spending the balance of her days
in a hotel.

"Hurry up. Get your hat and powder your nose and pretty yourself up.
Want you to feel at home. Mrs. Tom is _some_ doll."

She hastened back to the room. He was like a kind older brother
wanting to show her a good time, wanting her to show to the best
advantage. She smiled at him when she again joined him in the lobby.
"That better?"

He peered at her closely. "Much," he grunted and followed her through
the swinging door.

They played bridge with the Thompsons.

Through the open windows the noise of the city came swelling up
distractingly. The cards kept blowing from the table so that the men
were busy gathering them up from the floor. Mrs. Thompson wore a lacy
gown of lilac organdie cut quite low in the neck and her hair was
arranged in an elaborate and immaculate coiffure that stuck out behind
in huge, smooth, artificial-looking puffs. Her colour was high and not
all her own. Her husband was of the type commonly called a "rough
diamond," showing evident signs of hours spent in the barber's chair,
with a sort of rawness about a blue-black chin, traces of talcum
powder, and a lurking odour of toilet water. He wa