“They had quite an accident in the subway,” Beatrice observed.
“So I see.... Does seem to me the papers are awfully hard on the Interborough. I should think they ought to be permitted to charge an eight-cent fare; everything else is going up in price.”
“Do you suppose that Hennessy woman will get off?” asked Beatrice after an interval.
“Well, I’d like to see her.”
“Senator Knowles died, they think, from drinking whiskey that had wood alcohol in it.”
“Served him right. I wish they all would.”
§ 2
At twenty minutes past eight, Jeannette put on her hat carefully before the mirror, drew about her shoulders her tipped fox scarf, jerked her hands vigorously into stout tan gloves, and proceeded down the two flights of stairs to the street. As she descended she noted with customary pleasure the effect of the cream-painted woodwork in the halls, the width of the stairs, and the flood of light from the skylight above the stair-well which effectively illuminated the interior of the house. She and Beatrice had indeed been fortunate in finding a home in such a pleasant, well-arranged building. It was the same apartment Miss Holland and Mrs. O’Brien had occupied for so many years, until the latter married again, and the former went to live with her nephew, Jerry,—who was a Commander now, had a wife and babies, and was stationed at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The trend of Jeannette’s thoughts reminded her she had not been to see Miss Holland for nearly two months; she resolved upon a visit in the immediate future.
The street was filled with morning sunshine as Jeannette stepped out upon the stone flagging of the lower hall, closed the inner door behind her, and felt in her purse with gloved fingers for the key to the mail-box.
She found two letters for herself: one from Alice saying that Etta was going to town on Saturday, would love to lunch with Aunt Jeannette and be eternally grateful to her if she’d help her pick out the dress; the other was a circular from Wanamaker’s. It was the latter rather than the former communication that started the train of thought which occupied Jeannette’s mind as she firmly stepped along the Avenue. Her walk to the office took twenty-three minutes and as she passed Fourteenth Street she noted by a clock in front of a jeweller’s store that she was a minute ahead of time. The Wanamaker circular set forth the advantages of a sale of women’s suits, yet it was not the attractive prices nor the smart models that occasioned Jeannette’s thoughts. The envelope containing the circular was addressed to “Mrs. Martin Devlin.” No one called her by that name any more. When she went back to work as Mr. Corey’s secretary, she had been welcomed as “Miss Sturgis.” “Miss Sturgis” had meant something in the affairs of the Chandler B. Corey Company; no significance was attached to “Mrs. Devlin.” It seemed wiser to drop her married name,—and after the break with Martin, she had no desire to keep it.