the shoulders that were wont to hold themselves so erect and
confident.

A tentative knock at the door. The figure on the bed did not stir.
Another knock, louder this time. Emma McChesney sat up with a start.
She shivered as she became conscious of the icy December air pouring
into the little room. She rose, walked to the window, closed it with a
bang, and opened the door in time to intercept the third knock.

A waiter proffered her a long card. "Dinner, Madame?"

"Oh!" She shook her head. "Sorry I've changed my mind. I--I shan't
want any dinner."

She shut the door again and stood with her back against it, eying the
bed. In her mind's eye she had already thrown herself upon it, buried
her face in the nest of pillows, and given vent to the flood of tears
that was beating at her throat. She took a quick step toward the bed,
stopped, turned abruptly, and walked toward the mirror.

"Emma McChesney," she said aloud to the woman in the glass, "buck up,
old girl! Bad luck comes in bunches of threes. It's like breaking the
first cup in a new Haviland set. You can always count on smashing two
more. This is your third. So pick up the pieces and throw 'em in the
ash-can."

Then she fastened her collar, buttoned her shoe, pulled down her
shirtwaist all around, smeared her face with cold cream, wiped it with
a towel, smoothed her hair, donned her hat. The next instant the
little room was dark, and Emma McChesney was marching down the long,