in the tea-room of the Waldorf-Astoria); and rushed from the table for
hats, veils, and a drive on the Avenue.

Carlisle was to leave at ten o'clock. Her trunks were packed; her
"reservations" lay in the heavy gold bag swinging from her side. Home,
somehow, beckoned to her as it had never done before. Besides, New York,
with its swarming population (mostly with palms up) and its ceaseless
quadruple lines of motor-cars, began to oppress her.

"It's too full of people," she laughed to Mrs. Willing as they shot down
in the lift. "It's too big. Some day it will swell up and burst."

"Why, that's the fun of it, rusticus! How I love the roar!"

"I like it, too," said Carlisle. "But I do think it's nice to live in a
city where you can _some_times cross Main Street without asking four
policemen, and then probably having your leg picked off, after all."

They dashed across the onyx lobby for the main entrance, as fast as they
could go, Mrs. Willing remarking that they were almost too late to catch
the crowds as it was. From the small blue-velvet parlor, across the
corridor from the clerk's desk, a tall man rose at the sight of them,
and came straight forward. For a moment Carlisle's heart stopped beating
as she saw that it was Hugo Canning.

He advanced with his eyes upon her, brought her to a halt before him. If
the imps of memory must have their little toll at this remeeting, the
flicker passed through her too quickly for her to take note of it. It
woke no palest ghost of rebellion, to walk now. The girl's heart, having
missed a beat, ran away in a wild flutter....