he week. If she were free to do what she liked--or almost what she
liked--she would go at least as often as every Saturday to watch a big
liner move out from the dock, just for the delicious torture of it.

And yet--did she want to go back home? Whenever she asked herself this
question--and it was often--invariably for some silly reason, she saw
the blue, wistful eyes of that hypocrite, the younger Peter Rolls.
Also there came upon her a choking sense of homelessness, a
mother-want in a lonely world. But, as Sadie Kirk agreed with her in
saying, "What _was_ the good of squeezing juice out of your eyes just
because you happened to be low in your mind?" No, she would not cry!

Then, after all, she dropped asleep in a minute's interval between
trains, and dreamed that she was lost in Fifty-Ninth Street. It was as
long as the way to England, and a ghastly street to be lost in. Its
sky line--if it knew anything about the sky--was as irregular as a
Wagner dragon's teeth--high buildings and low buildings, and shanties
where coloured families lived; little, sinister-looking houses where
people could be murdered and their bodies never found, shops where you
could buy everything you didn't want and nothing that you did.

In the dream black and white children were fighting and skating on
roller skates over the pavement. Cars were clanging bells. Everybody
and everything was making a noise of some sort. Win was trying to get
past the skaters and catch a car. She must, or she would be late for
something! But what? This was horrible. She was going somewhere, and
could not remember where or what she had to do. She was lost forever,
and had forgotten her name and the name of the street where she lived.
A roller-skating boy with the face of a black monkey threw her down,
and a surface car and Peter Rolls's automobile were about to run over
her when she waked with a jump that shook the palsied bed. Another "L"
train booming by!

Despite lack of sleep and a tiredness of body that Sunday could not
cure, Win had never looked more attractive than when, at precisely
twelve forty-five on Monday afternoon she presented herself at Mr.
Meggison's door.

This was his private den, and a visit there, even on a less alarming
errand than hers, was far more formidable than pausing for inspection
at an office window. Sadie, with the best intentions, had been able to
give little encouragement There must be scolding or else flirting in
prospect. And