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She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. “When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. For when this Joan said it, I had a memory. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. She was nestled under his bedspread. Shotbolt," cried the turnkey, "I've good news for you.
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