ing gowns, was the willowy figure of Fay Judson, utterly crushed and confidently expecting to be followed. She was at this instant waiting for a knock on the door. When the knock came, it was her purpose to answer with silence, but she expected thereafter that the knocker would recklessly intrude. She expected her tears to be kissed away and herself to be shaken tenderly, imploringly, until she would consent to see contrite eyes staring into hers from a distance of a few inches, while a humble voice demanded frantically to know what was the matter. She expected that and checked herself suddenly in the middle of a sob to realize that no such thing was happening.
She sat bolt upright and watched the door for the first sign of vibration when he should lay a feeble hand upon it.
And then, all at once, in this alert position, she heard his voice, not near, but away out on the porch, not trembling, but crisp, matter-offact, monotonous. Dictating! He was dictating, calmly reading letters and answering them, criticizing advertising copy and approving sales plans.
With her clenched hand she struck the pillow, once, twice, three times; then, with a swift, proud movement, swung her feet to the floor and began to stanch her tears—indignant tears they were
