When the last guest had gone, Mary dropped into a chair and groaned.
"It was a success all right, but thank God it's over. Jean, that is my idea of Hell."
Jean was looking out to the bare trees of the Park. It was empty, and bits of paper blew in a gusty wind about the paths. A leaden sky hung low and the arc-light was not yet lit. Jean shivered.
"It's mine, too," she said, and the tears suddenly welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
"Why, Jean, what on earth is the matter?"
Jean brushed at the tears and tried to smile. "I suppose I've been more worried about this going off well than I knew. It's finished, too; nothing left but to build now. It's rather like a death somehow."
Dr. Mary looked thoughtfully at Jean's back. It was not at all like Jean to cry because a piece of work was successfully finished. In fact, she had never seen Jean cry before.
"I shouldn't wonder if you didn't need a rest, Mrs. Herrick, in spite of that energy of yours. I don't believe you had a decent, leisurely meal all those last weeks of the strike. Will you take one?"
For a moment Jean did not know whether she was going to laugh or burst into an uncontrollable fit of crying. She turned away from the window.
"Certainly not. I never felt better in my life. It's partly these candles. I hate the things. They always look like funerals or a church. Let's have some practical, plebeian light."