as she hurried toward the Broadway subway.

At nine-thirty she was standing at a counter in the infants'
wear section at Best's, making mental notes while the
unsuspecting saleswoman showed her how the pink ribbon in
this year's models was brought under the beading, French
fashion, instead of weaving through it, as heretofore. At
ten-thirty she was saying to Sid Udell, "I think a written
contract is always best. Then we'll all know just where we
stand. Mr. Fenger will be on next week to arrange the
details, but just now a very brief written understanding to
show him on my return would do."

And she got it, and tucked it away in her bag, in triumph.

She tried to leave New York without talking to Heyl, but
some quiet, insistent force impelled her to act contrary to
her resolution. It was, after all, the urge of the stronger
wish against the weaker.

When he heard her voice over the telephone Heyl did not say,
"Who is this?" Neither did he put those inevitable
questions of the dweller to the transient, "Where are you?
How long have you been here?" What he said was, "How're you
going to avoid dining with me to-night?"

To which Fanny replied, promptly, "By taking the Twentieth
Century back to Chicago to-day."

A little silence. A hurt silence. Then, "When they get the