clothes signed by Henry. It wasn't a very large check; Lucretia knew that Bee couldn't dress on three times the amount, but as she toiled up the stairs to-day to the playroom on the third floor she told herself that Bee was exactly right. She ought to be willing to do anything she could to help Henry. She would take a big dose of quinine, and really it didn't make much difference how queerly she looked in Bee's gown; she never attracted much attention.
If Lucretia had known that afternoon, when she occupied the little desk in the writing-room of the hotel, that some one had been sitting directly behind her waiting for a chance at the pen and ink himself, and watching her in the meanwhile, she would not have expressed herself with quite such abandon. It had been Thomas Hornby who, hidden behind the lace curtain of the hotel, had smiled with his companion at the girl outside in the street, and later, having put his luncheon companion into a taxicab, had sauntered back to write a note.
"I shouldn't have noticed her at all," he told his mother late that afternoon as he sat in her upstairs town-house sitting-room, stretched out before the fire, "but she had such a ferocious manner with her pen. She dipped, and scratched, and blotted for ten minutes solid, I should say, then
