Slow steps ascending the stairs—heavy, painful steps. The two women listened in silence. Every footfall seemed to emphasize Pinky's words. The older woman turned her face toward the sound, her lips parted, her eyes anxious, tender.
"How tired he sounds," said Pinky; "and old. And he's only—why, dad's only fifty-eight."
"Fifty-seven," snapped Mrs. Brewster, sharply, protectingly.
Pinky leaned forward and kissed her. "Good-night, mummy dear. You're so tired, aren't you?"
Her father stood in the doorway.
"Good-night, dear. I ought to be tucking you into bed. It's all turned around, isn't it? Biscuits and honey for breakfast, remember."
So Pinky went off to her own room (sans slp cov) and slept soundly, dreamlessly, as does one whose work is well done.
Three days later Pinky left. She waved a good-bye from the car platform, a radiant, electric, confident Pinky, her work well done.
"Au 'voir! The first of November! Everything begins then. You'll love it. You'll be real New Yorkers by Christmas. Now, no changing your minds, remember."