With the little blue pitcher held tightly in her hand, she walked over to the window and looked up at the big gray stone house that was soon to know her as its mistress. And for the very first time the perfect realization of what it all would mean was borne in upon her. She stood there for several minutes motionless, then with a violent, angry shake of the head she cried out in a high, defiant voice: “No, no, no, not until—not yet, not yet!”
She walked rapidly away from the window, and put the little blue pitcher in a post of honor on the mantelpiece. Then, crossing over to the dressing table, she picked up her purse and carefully counted the money. The result must have been satisfactory, for a half-triumphant smile flitted across her face. After that, from the mysterious depths of that same purse, she unearthed a time-table and studied it earnestly.
Then, sitting at her tiny desk, she nervously scrawled these words:
Dear Mother: I have gone to New York to spend the night with Lilla Browning—made up my mind suddenly, and as I knew you were asleep, didn’t want to bother you. Knew you couldn’t possibly have any objection, because you are so fond of Lil. Want to do some shopping in the morning, and thought this would be the best way to get an early start. Expect me home to-morrow afternoon on the 5:45. Best regards to Mr. Thornton. Have Maggie press my red dress; tell her to be careful not to scorch it. I found the lace. By-by. Nancy.
“All’s fair in love and war,” she murmured, softly, rising from her chair, and taking off stock and belt preparatory to a change of costume. She smiled happily as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were starlike, her whole expression was perfectly radiant.
“And you’re responsible for it all, you little imp!” She shook her finger at the fat, bright blue pitcher with flaming vermilion roses on either side, as it stood on the mantelpiece in blissful unconsciousness of its total depravity.
In less than twenty minutes Nancy was dressed for the street and on her way to the railroad station. Ten minutes later two telegrams flashed over the wires. One ran:
Mrs. Jonathan Browning, West Seventy-second Street, New York City: Will spend to-night with you. Arrive about ten. Don’t meet me. Nancy.
The second one was more brief:
Mr. Philip Peirce. Princeton Club, New York City: Dine with me to-night at Scarlatti’s at seven. Anne Warren.