In her pocketbook she had a tidy sum saved out of the housekeeping money.  She was naturally thrifty, and Orville had never been niggardly.  Her meals when Orville was on the road, had been those sketchy, haphazard affairs with which women content themselves when their household is manless.  At noon she went into the dining car and ordered a flaunting little repast of chicken salad and asparagus, and Neapolitan ice cream.  The men in the dining car eyed her speculatively and with appreciation.  Then their glance dropped to the third finger of her left hand, and wandered away.  She had meant to remove it.  In fact, she had taken it off and dropped it into her bag.  But her hand felt so queer, so unaccustomed, so naked, that she had found herself slipping the narrow band on again, and her thumb groped for it, gratefully.

It was almost five o’clock when she reached Chicago.  She felt no uncertainty or bewilderment.  She had been in Chicago three or four times since her marriage.  She went to a down town hotel.  It was too late, she told herself, to look for a more inexpensive room that night.  When she had tidied herself she went out.  The things she did were the childish, aimless things that one does who finds herself in possession of sudden liberty.  She walked up State Street, and stared in the windows; came back, turned into Madison, passed a bright little shop in the window of which taffy—­white and gold—­was being wound endlessly and fascinatingly about a double-jointed machine.  She went in and bought a sackful, and wandered on down the street, munching.

She had supper at one of those white-tiled sarcophagi that emblazon Chicago’s down town side streets.  It had been her original intention to dine in state in the rose-and-gold dining room of her hotel.  She had even thought daringly of lobster.  But at the last moment she recoiled from the idea of dining alone in that wilderness of tables so obviously meant for two.

After her supper she went to a picture show.  She was amazed to find there, instead of the accustomed orchestra, a pipe-organ that panted and throbbed and rumbled over lugubrious classics.  The picture was about a faithless wife.  Terry left in the middle of it.

She awoke next morning at seven, as usual, started up wildly, looked around, and dropped back.  Nothing to get up for.  The knowledge did not fill her with a rush of relief.  She would have her breakfast in bed!  She telephoned for it, languidly.  But when it came she got up and ate it from the table, after all.  Terry was the kind of woman to whom a pink gingham all-over apron, and a pink dust-cap are ravishingly becoming at seven o’clock in the morning.  That sort of woman congenitally cannot enjoy her breakfast in bed.