When I went through the hall to the door two men-servants bowed me out as if I were a princess. And I went down the stairs weeping bitterly.
I went along the street, crying and not caring who saw me. Then I sat down in Madison Square. Suddenly someone came and sat beside me. A woman. I felt her eyes fixed on me for a long time, and I turned and looked at her. There, under a turquoise toque, sat the golden hair and the large face of the prairie chicken.
"How do you do, Mrs. Doyle?" I said.
"What?" She turned quickly. "How do you know my name?" And she added, frowning: "What are you crying for?"
"For love of a woman who has been kind to me," I said.
"There are lots of kind women," she answered. "I'm kind. What do you want?"
"I want you to come and talk to my husband," I said. "You know him. You met him in Monte Carlo. His name is Aldo della Rocca."
"What? Della Rocca? That lovely Italian creature? That Apollo of Belvedere? Of course I remember him. Where is he? What is he doing here?"
"Come and see," I said.
And she came up to Mrs. Schmidl's house in 28th Street.