The girl did not look up as Constance bent over and put her arms about her.
"Who was he?" she asked persuasively.
"Preston—Lansing Preston," she sobbed bitterly. "Only the other day I read of his engagement to a girl in Chicago—beautiful, in society. Oh—I could KILL him," she cried, throwing out her arms passionately. "Think of it. He—rich, powerful, respected. I—poor, almost crazy—an outcast."
Constance did not interfere until the tempest had passed.
"What name did you give at the tea room?" asked Constance.
"Viola Cole," answered Florence.
"Rest here," soothed Constance. "Here at least you are safe. I have an idea. I shall be back soon."
The Betsy Ross was still open after the rush of tired shoppers and later of business women to whom this was not only a restaurant but a club. Constance entered and sat down.
"Is the manager in?" she asked of the waitress.
"Mrs. Palmer? No. But, if you care to wait, I think she'll be back directly."