ars," she sighed; "but then, I think it is
going to take the nonsense out of a lot of people that are only
erratic because they have never been properly fed. I guess I'll go and
have a look at the old place in its Sunday evening calm. Already it
seems queer not to be there at nine o'clock in the evening, but I
don't really think there are people enough in New York now on Sundays
to make it an object."

Nancy's feet turned mechanically toward the arena of her most serious
activities. Like most of us who run away, she was following by
instinct the logical periphery of her responsibilities.

The big green latticed gate was closed against all intruders. Nancy
had the key to its padlock in her hand-bag, but she had no intention
of using it. The white and crimson sign flapped in the soft breeze
companionably responsive to the modest announcement, "Marble Workshop,
Reproductions and Antiques, Garden Furniture," which so inadequately
invited those whom it might concern to a view of the petrified
vaudeville within. Through the interstices of the gate the courtyard
looked littered and unalluring;--the wicker tables without their fine
white covers; the chairs pushed back in a heterogeneous assemblage;
the segregated columns of a garden peristyle gaunt against the dark,
gleamed a more ghostly white than the weather-stained busts and
figures less recently added to the collection. It seemed to Nancy
incredible that the place would ever bloom again with lights and
bouquets and eager patrons, with her group of pretty flower-like
waitresses moving deftly among them. She stared at the spot with the
cold eye of the creator whose handiwork is out of the range of his
vision, and the inspiration of it for the moment, gone.

"I feel like Cinderella and her godmother rolled into one," she
thought disconsolately. "I waved my wand, and made so many things
happen, and now that the clock has struck, again here I am outside in
the cold and dark,"--the wind was taking on a keener edge, and she
shivered slightly in her muslins--"with nothing but a pumpkin shell to
show for it. Hitty says that getting what you want is apt to be
unlikely business, and I'm inclined to think she's right."

It seemed to her suddenly that the thing she had wanted,--a
picturesque, cleverly executed restaurant where people could be fed
according to the academic ideals of an untried young woman like
herself was an unthinkable thing. The power of illusion failed for the
m