very, very good to you."

The sheets of paper fell from her hands. She sat staring out
into Dearborn Street. She began to see. After all, he had not
understood her. Perhaps men never understood women; certainly
he had not understood her. What he did not know was that she
was willing to _pay_ for her happiness--_pay_--pay any price
that might be exacted. And anyway--she had no choice. Strange that
he could not see that! Strange that he could not see the irony and
cruelty of bidding her good-bye and then telling her to be happy!

It simplified itself to such an extent that she _grew_ very
calm. It would be easy to find him, easy to make him see--for it was
so very simple--and then....

She turned in her copy. She said good-bye quietly, naturally, rode
down in the lumbering old elevator and started out into the now
drenching rain toward the elevated trains which would take her to
the West Side; it was so fortunate that she had heard him telling
one day where he lived.

When she reached the station she saw that more people were coming
down the stairs than were going up. They were saying things about
the trains, but she did not heed them. But at the top of the stairs
a man in uniform said: "Blockade, Miss. You'll have to take the
surface cars."

She was sorry, for it would delay her, and there was not a minute to
lose. She was dismayed, upon reaching the surface cars, to find she
could not get near them; the rain, the blockade on the "L" had