of her little new
felt hat, purchased in Paris. Her small choker fur was of good
stone-marten, even her gloves and the handkerchief peeping from her
pocket had the correct touch. Trifles, perhaps, but trifles that
mattered. She made "good money," and she had always found it paid to
dress well and carefully.... Of course, she would not be able to buy
clothes on her salary from Dr. Sartorius--but what did it matter, for
six months or so? It was surely worth a sacrifice to remain in France.
Besides, she had a little saved up.

The doctor ... that rather odd, cold creature. The prospect of working
for him did not fill her with enthusiasm. What exactly was it she felt
about him? She strove to analyse her impression, and found herself
thinking only of his small, dull eyes and queer, flat forehead.... He
was an able man, no charlatan, of that she was sure, instinctively.
Primarily, a student, no doubt. What was his practice like, if indeed
he had any? Not a good manner for a doctor, too remote, too negative,
too lacking in humanity.

"For a moment I felt positively creepy!" she told herself. "What was
it he reminded me of? Something that fascinated and repelled ... or am
I merely imagining things?"

After all, what did it matter? She always got on well with people....

"My Dinah's gone away to Carolina,
My Dinah's gone and broke my heart in two.
Lonesome and blue,
Nothin' to do,
I roams around a-feelin' like I had the 'flu..."

From the region of the saxophones a gorgeous baritone had soared forth.
Glancing around she saw the glistening black face of a faultlessly
attired American negro. The song, one of the mournful type now
emanating from Broadway, was the last word in banality, but the honeyed
voice, suave, insinuating, gave it the charm of a narcotic. Even the
waiters stopped where they were and gazed as they listened, transfixed.
Conversation died, the great room was stilled to drink in the notes. A
storm of applause, the chorus was repeated once, twice. Then fell a
moment's lull and ordinary sounds began again.

It was at this moment that, tea-pot in hand, Esther heard close at her
elbow the choking sound of a woman's sob. It startled her so that she
very nearly looked around, curious to see the person who was so moved
by the sentimental tribute to the lost Dinah. Then she was glad she
had not turned, for she caught these words, low, passionate, distinct:

"Arthur--if _you_ go aw