Why had he allowed her to do those few little daring things, which looked so cheap and disgusting in the detective’s typed report?  And besides, if she did want to see him, could she, without being watched by some wretched detective?  For the whole town seemed bristling with detectives and police.  And the city of New York felt cold.  As she lay on her bed, a sudden gay laugh from a neighbouring window recalled to her mind that night long ago, her first in New York, when she had listened excitedly and thought of all the stories here, both sad and comic.

“Well, I’m a story now,” she thought.  “And I suppose I’m comic!” The angry tears rose in I her eyes.  Oh, for a real friend!  There was Emily Giles, of course, but this was Emily’s night out; and besides, in matters of this kind she would be worse than useless.  “What I need is a woman who knows this town—­and all its ways—­and what to do!” As the evening drew on and still Joe did not come, again and again she felt ready to scream.  And though she savagely held herself in, each time was harder than the last.

“Something has simply got to be done!” she told herself after one outbreak like that.  Then all at once came the recollection of young Mrs. Grewe downstairs.  “I must have some one or I’ll go mad!” And she hurried to the telephone.  But in the hall she stopped and frowned.  “No, I won’t call her up,” she thought.  “That inquisitive telephone girl downstairs would begin to gossip about it at once.”  For the same reason Ethel did not take the elevator.  She ran quickly down two flights and rang at Mrs. Grewe’s door.  There was silence.  She waited some moments, then rang again.  “Oh, she’s out—­I know she is!” The thought brought a sickening empty feeling.  She would have to face this night alone!

But abruptly the door opened, and a sleepy startled maid looked at her in dull surprise.

“Is she out tonight?  Is Mrs. Grewe out?” Ethel asked impatiently.

“Yes—­she’s out,” the girl replied.

But glancing behind her Ethel saw a high hat and an overcoat on a chair, and with a quick little “Oh!” of dismay, she turned and hurried away down the hall.  She heard the maid’s chuckle behind her.  “Oh-h!” She could feel her cheeks burning.  And when she got back to her bedroom upstairs, out of the shame and humility rose a fierce anger which downed all her fears at the thought of this night or of anything else.  “I’ll never be like her!” she exclaimed.  “There’ll never be a high hat in my hall at this time of night—­nor a Boston old maid—­nor a snickering telephone girl downstairs!  Never!  I’ll make myself ugly first!  For I’m not like you, I’m not like you!  I’ve had a child, to begin with—­and I’m going to keep him, he’s mine!”

There came again a period of swift determined thinking.  And at last with a quick thrill of relief she remembered Mrs. Crothers was coming with Dwight to call the next day.  Sally Crothers—­Joe’s old friend!  “If she believed in me—­really believed in all that I was trying to do—­she could give me just the advice I need!  It may be I’m just silly—­and she could give me her common sense!  She might even talk to Joe herself—­and make him realize my whole plan!  If only I can get her to help me!”