with color and the great public gathering-spots let in and let out their throngs.  She responded to the quickened animation with the spontaneity of one all ready to take her part, till the thought came that a part had been refused her.  It was with a curious sensation of being outside the range of human activities that, during those days of timid, futile looking for employment, she roamed the busy thoroughfares of New York.  As time passed she ceased to think much about her need of sympathetic fellowship in her anxiety to get work.  She wrote advertisements and answered them; she applied at schools, and offices, and shops; she came down to seeking any humble drudgery which would give her the chance to live.

It was not till one day in early December that the last flicker of her hope went out.  Chance had made her pass at midday along the pavement opposite one of the great restaurants.  Lifting her eyes instinctively toward the group of well-dressed people on the steps, she saw that Mrs. Bayford and Marion Grimston were going in, accompanied by Reggie Bradford and the Marquis de Bienville.  She had heard little or nothing of them during the last four empty months; but it was plain now that the lovers were agreed and her own cause abandoned.  Up to this moment she had not realized how tenaciously she had clung to the belief that the proud, high-souled girl would yet see justice done her; and now she had deserted her, like the rest!

For the first time during her years of struggle she felt absolutely beaten—­beaten so thoroughly that it would be useless to renew the fight.  She had been on her way to see a lady who had advertised for a nursery governess; but she had no strength left with which to face the interview.  In the winter-garden of the restaurant Mrs. Bayford was purring to her guests, Reggie Bradford was whispering to Miss Grimston, and the Marquis de Bienville was ordering the wines, while Diane was wandering blindly back to the poor little room she called her home, there to lie down and allow her heart to break.

But hearts do not break at the command of those who own them, and when she had moaned away the worst of her pain, she fell asleep.  When she awoke it was already growing dark, and the knocking at her door, which roused her, was like a call from the peace of dreams to the desolation of reality.  When she had turned on the light she received from the hands of the waiting servant that which had become a most rare visitant in the blankness of her life—­a note.

The address was in a sprawling hand, which she recognized.  What was written within was more sprawling still: 

  “For Heaven’s sake, come to me at once.  The expected has happened, and
  I don’t know what to do.  The motor will wait and bring you.

  CLARA WAPPINGER.”

[Illustration:  DRAWN BY FRANK CRAIG MRS. BAYFORD WAS PURRING TO HER GUESTS]

XIX