But for Florence there was to be no fire. She was half way across the room. Ten seconds later she had thrown up the window and was standing on the ledge.
Caught by surprise, the others in the room stood motionless, like puppets in a play. What did they think—that she would dash her life out on the pavement below? Or did they just not think at all?
To Florence life had always seemed beautiful; never so much so as at that moment. To live, to dream, to hope, to struggle on and on toward some unseen distant goal. Ah, yes, life! Life! To feel the breath of morning on your cheek, to face the rising sun, to throw back your shoulders, to drink in deep breaths of air, to whisper, “God, I thank you for life!” This was Florence always. She would not willingly dash out her own brains.
Nor was there the need. Before her, an easy arm’s length away, were two stout ropes. The roof was undergoing repairs. Material was drawn up on these ropes. They ended in a large tub on the sidewalk ten stories below.
There was not a second to lose. The paralysis inside that room would soon pass. And then—
Her two strong arms shot out. She gripped a rope. She swung out over space. Her feet twisted about the rope. She shot downward. There was a smell of scorching leather. Windows passed her. In one room a char-woman scrubbed a floor, in a second a belated worker kissed his stenographer good-night, and then, plump! she landed at the feet of a young man who, up until that second, had been strolling the street reading a book.
The young man leaped suddenly into the air. The book came down with a loud slap.
“Do—do you do that sort of thing reg—regularly?” the young man stuttered when he had regained a little of his dignity. He looked up at the rope as if expecting to see a whole bevy of girls, perhaps angels too, descending on the rope.
“No,” Florence laughed a trifle shakily, “I don’t do it often.”
“But see here!” the young man exclaimed, “you look all sort of white and shaky, as if you—you’d seen a ghost or something! How about a good cup of java or—or something, on a stool, you know—right around the corner? Perfectly respectable, I assure you.”