The floorwalker who controlled Mantles was one of the smartest men in any department, somewhat of a martinet, but inclined to be reasonable with those who had any “gumption.”  Miss Child had gumption, and though it was nearly time for the public to rush in (there was a bargain sale that day) he gave her a permit of absence.

“Nothing worse than a headache, I hope, takes you to the H.R.?” he questioned, scrawling his powerful name.  “We need everybody to get busy to-day.”

“I’m going to beg for some sal volatile,” answered Win, and determined to do so, as even white fibs were horrid little things, almost as horrid as cowardly, scuttling black beetles.

Poor Sadie had giggled the other night:  “You stick even to the truth this hot weather!”

The doctor had not gone, but he did not know of the new place Sadie referred to, and, not knowing, didn’t believe in its existence.  He had told Sadie Kirk yesterday that her lungs were infected and that she had become “contagious.”  Of course she had had to be discharged.  These things were sad, but they were a part of the day’s work.  It was a pity that Miss Kirk hadn’t been longer with the Hands.  Her insurance money wouldn’t amount to much.

“Do you mean to say that they’ve sent her away to die and haven’t given her anything?” Win gasped.

“Not to die, I hope,” said young Dr. Marlow.  “She’s curable.  But she wouldn’t get more than a week’s salary with her discharge, I’m afraid.  Old Saint Peter isn’t in this business for his health.”

“Or for any one else’s,” the girl retorted.

Marlow shrugged his shoulders, bowed slightly to the pretty but unreasonable young woman, and went away.

Winifred also should have gone.  She had got her sal volatile and her information.  But life was lying in ruins around her—­Sadie’s life, if not her own—­and she did not know how to set about reconstructing it.

“What man does she love who loves another girl?” she asked herself.

Then, suddenly, she knew.  It was Earl Usher, and he loved her, Winifred, who could never be more to him than a friend.

Win had heard of a “vicious circle.”  It seemed that she and Sadie and Ursus were travelling in one, going round and round, and could never get out.

“But I must go down,” the mechanical part of herself kept repeating.

She had involuntarily paused near the door to think things out in peace.  There were no patients for the two narrow white beds, and the nurse—­a small, nervous woman with sentimental eyes—­was heating water over a spirit lamp.  She suffered from headache and had prescribed herself some tea.  The water had begun to boil, and despite the throbbing in her temples she hummed monotonously:  “You Made Me Love You.”

Winifred heard the tune through her thoughts of Sadie and Earl Usher, and it seemed to make everything sadder and more hopeless.  But suddenly the singing broke off—­the thin voice rose to a shriek, and was lost in a loud explosion.