And it was.

The scenery, props, and costumes of the London production of “Splendour” were slow in coming back.  But finally they did come.  Josie received them with the calmness that comes of hope deferred.  It had been three years since she last saw the play.  She told herself, chidingly, that she had been sort of foolish over that play and this costume.  Her recent glimpse of Haddon had been somewhat disillusioning.  But now, when she finally held the gown itself in her hand—­the original “Splendour” second-act gown, a limp, soft black mass:  just a few yards of worn and shabby velvet—­she found her hands shaking.  Here was where she had hugged the toy dog to her breast.  Here where she had fallen on her knees to pray before the little shrine in her hotel room.  Every worn spot had a meaning for her.  Every mark told a story.  Her fingers smoothed it tenderly.

“Not much left of that,” said one of the sewing girls, glancing up.  “I guess Sarah would have a hard time making the hooks and eyes meet now.  They say she’s come home from London looking a little too prosperous.”

Josie did not answer.  She folded the dress over her arm and carried it to the wardrobe room.  There she hung it away in an empty closet, quite apart from the other historic treasures.  And there it hung, untouched, until the following Sunday.

On Sunday morning East Forty-third Street bears no more resemblance to the week-day Forty-third than does a stiffly starched and subdued Sabbath-school scholar to his Monday morning self.  Strangely quiet it is, and unfrequented.  Josie Fifer, scurrying along in the unwonted stillness, was prompted to throw a furtive glance over her shoulder now and then, as though afraid of being caught at some criminal act.  She ran up the little flight of steps with a rush, unlocked the door with trembling fingers, and let herself into the cool, dank gloom of the storehouse hall.  The metal door of the elevator stared inquiringly after her.  She fled past it to the stairway.  Every step of that ancient structure squeaked and groaned.  First floor, second, third, fourth.  The everyday hum of the sewing machines was absent.  The room seemed to be holding its breath.  Josie fancied that the very garments on the worktables lifted themselves inquiringly from their supine position to see what it was that disturbed their Sabbath rest.  Josie, a tense, wide-eyed, frightened little figure, stood in the centre of the vast room, listening to she knew not what.  Then, relaxing, she gave a nervous little laugh and, reaching up, unpinned her hat.  She threw it on a near-by table and disappeared into the wardrobe room beyond.