"Skirts? There is no such thing," corrected Emma McChesney gently."
Sausage-casing business, you mean."

"Guess you're right, at that. By the way, how's that handsome
youngster of yours? He's not traveling with you this trip?"

There came a wonderful glow into Emma McChesney's tired face.

"Jock's at college. Coming home for the holidays. We're going to have
a dizzy week in New York. I'm wild to see if those three months of
college have done anything to him, bless his heart! Oh, kind sir,
forgive a mother's fond ravings! Where'd that youngster go with my
bag?"

Up at last in the stuffy, unfriendly, steam-smelling hotel bedroom
Emma McChesney prepared to make herself comfortable. A cocky bell-boy
switched on the lights, adjusted a shade, straightened a curtain. Mrs.
McChesney reached for her pocket-book.

"Just open that window, will you?"

"Pretty cold," remonstrated the bell-boy. "Beginning to snow, too."

"Can't help it. I'll shut it in a minute. The last man that had this
room left a dead cigar around somewhere. Send up a waiter, please. I'm
going to treat myself to dinner in my room."

The boy gone, she unfastened her collar, loosened a shoe that had
pressed a bit too tightly over the instep, took a kimono and toilette