had been served to her in the hotel room, and she had not wanted it, only a couple of hours ago; but as she passed the gleaming windows of a cafeteria and gazed in upon the racks of bread and rolls, the plates of salads and the covered pots wherein steamed broths and soups, she felt weak for food and she stepped into the lunch-room, greeted by the warm, familiar odors of baked meats and hot puddings, and spicy, simmering stews.
The hour was after nine and less than a dozen patrons, all of them men, were seated at the tables. They looked up when Joan Daisy entered and followed her with their eyes, aS men usually inspected her and in no different way.
She left her bag with the cashier, provided herself with a tray and obtained a bowl of soup, bread, a chop and peas, a plate of salad, ice-cream and a macaroon. She felt famished and, with a sigh of anticipation, she laid her loaded tray upon an empty table.
Then, two tables away, she saw a newspaper abandoned by some just-departed diner and she read the headlines which were identical with those which had faced Ket's mother from her porch when she went to take in the milk.
Suffering some part of that fascination which had prevented Anna Folwell from immediately picking up the paper, Joan Daisy did not carry the newspaper to her table, but bore her tray to it.
A huge picture of Ket stared at her from the first inside page; she stared upon the likeness of herself with Mr. Clarke beside her.
They were upon a flight of steps; of course it was the photograph taken by flashlight when he was leading her down from her home.
There was a print of Adele and of the baby—Adele and Ket's baby. Evidently it had been taken from a
