After a tiresome day, Palla left a new Hostess House which she had aided to establish, and took a Fifth Avenue bus, too weary to walk home.
The day had been clear and sunny, and she wondered dully why it had left with her the impression of grey skies.
Dusk came before she arrived at her house. She went into her unlighted living room, and threw herself on the lounge, lying with eyes closed and the back of one gloved hand across her temples.
When a servant came to turn up the lamp, Palla had bitten her lip till the blood flecked her white glove. She sat up, declined to have tea, and, after the maid had departed, she remained seated, her teeth busy with her under lip again, her eyes fixed on space.
After a long while her eyes swerved to note the clock and what its gilt hands indicated.
And she seemed to arrive at a conclusion, for she went to her bedroom, drew a bath, and rang for her maid.
“I want my rose evening gown,” she said. “It needs a stitch or two where I tore it dancing.”