"So long, Marty! Don't be too late." She nodded and smiled and went
upstairs.

And he nodded and smiled and went down--to the mental depths. "What
am I to do?" he asked himself. "What am I to do?" And he put his
arms into the coat that was held out and took his hat. In the street
the soft April light was fading, and the scent of spring was blown
to him from the Park. He turned into Fifth Avenue in company with a
horde of questions that he couldn't shake off. He couldn't believe
that any of all this was true. Was there no one in all this world of
people who would help him and give him a few words of advice? "Oh,
Father," he said from the bottom of his heart, "dear old Father,
where are you?"

The telephone bell was ringing as Joan went into her room. Gilbert
Palgrave spoke--lightly and fluently and with easy words of
flattery.

She laughed and sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs and
put the instrument on her knee. "You read all that in a book," she
said. "I'm tired. Yesterday and the night before. . .No. . .No. .
.All right, then. Fetch me in an hour." She put the receiver back.

"Why not?" she said to herself, ringing for her maid. "Bed's for old
people. Thank God, I sha'n't be old for a century."

She presented her back to the deft-fingered girl and yawned. But the
near-by clatter of traffic sounded in her ears.