Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. Kneebone, Van Galgebrok, and Baptist Kettleby—all of whom greeted him cordially. He is coming here to tea. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. Presently he resumed: “I believe I must be in love.
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