was off. She fairly flew along, so that it was not until
she had reached Thirty-third street that she said aloud, as
was her way when moved, "I don't care. Don't blame me. It
was that miserable little beast of a dog in the white
sweater that did it."

It was almost seven when she reached her room. A maid, in
neat black and white, was just coming out with an armful of
towels.

"I just brought you a couple of extra towels. We were short
this morning," she said.

The room was warm, and quiet, and bright. In her bathroom,
that glistened with blue and white tiling, were those
redundant towels. Fanny stood in the doorway and counted
them, whimsically. Four great fuzzy bath towels. Eight
glistening hand towels. A blue and white bath rug hung at
the side of the tub. Her telephone rang. It was Ella.

"Where in the world have you been, child? I was worried
about you. I thought you were lost in the streets of New
York."

"I took a 'bus ride," Fanny explained.

"See anything of New York?"

"I saw all of it," replied Fanny. Ella laughed at that, but
Fanny's face was serious.