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At three o'clock the elevator-man brought Rosie Davis along the hall Rosie, whose costume betrayed haste, and whose figure, under a gaudy motor-coat, gave more than a suggestion of being unsupported and wrapper-clad. She carried a clinking silver chatelaine, however, and at the door she opened it and took out a quarter, extending it with a regal gesture to the elevator-man.
So many things she had to say now. A little while ago she hadn't been able to talk. Now, for no apparent reason, there was much to say, yet no time to say it. How queer Life was! "To-morrow, I expect," she hurried on. "Good night, Mr. Henley." "Good night Missy." With his daring, gleaming smile. Inside the hall door, mother, wrapper-clad, met her disapprovingly.
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