Her dissatisfaction finally drove her toward Hilmer’s office.  She stopped at one of the flower stands on Grant Avenue and bought a half dozen daffodils.  She begrudged the price she had to give for them, but they did set off the dull raisin shade of her dress with a proper flare of color.  She concluded she would play up the yellow note in her costuming oftener.  Somehow it kindled her.  She wondered for the first time in her life what gypsy strain had flooded her with such dark beauty.  She stopped before a millinery shop and peered critically at her reflection in a window mirror.  Yes, the yellow note was a good one, but she was still a trifle cold.  If her lips had been a little fuller...  Strange she had never thought about that before.  Well, next time she would touch them ever so deftly into a suggestion of ripe opulence.  She sauntered slowly down Post Street, turned into Montgomery.  There were scarcely any women on the street and the men who passed were, for the most part, in preoccupied flight.  Yet she saw more than one pair of eyes widen with brief appraisal as she went by.  Hilmer’s offices were in the Merchants’ Exchange Building.  Helen decided to slip in through the Montgomery Street entrance.  She felt that there might be a chance of running into Fred on California Street and she didn’t want to do that.

As she shot up toward the eleventh story in the elevator she rehearsed her opening scene with Hilmer.  She decided to take her cue flippantly.  She would banter him at first and gradually veer to more serious topics...  But once she stood in his rather austere inner shrine of business, she decided against subterfuges.  He had stepped into the main office, the boy who showed her in explained.  Would she have a seat?  She dropped into a chair, taking in her background with feminine swiftness.  A barometer, a map, two stiffly painted pictures exhibiting as many sailing vessels in full flight, a calendar bearing the advertisement of a ship-chandlery firm—­this was the extent of the wall decoration.  The office furniture was golden oak, the rugs of indifferent neutrality.  On his desk he had a picture of Mrs. Hilmer, taken in a bygone day, very plump and blond and youthful in a soft, tranquil way.  And by its side, in a little ridiculously-blue glass vase, some spring wild flowers languished, pallidly white and withered by the heat of captivity.  She checked an impulse to rise when he came in.  For a moment his virility had overwhelmed her into a feeling of deference, but she recovered herself sufficiently to droop nonchalantly into her seat as he gave her his hand.  He was not in the least put out of countenance by her unexpected presence, and she felt a fleeting sense of disappointment, almost of pique.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,” she began, tritely.

He swung his swivel chair toward her and sat down.  “Yes, naturally,” he returned, with disconcerting candor.

She touched the petals of her daffodils with a pensive finger.  “Well, really, you know, I’d quite made up my mind to pretend at first...  Women never like to come directly to the point.  I thought up a silly excuse—­begging for an orphan asylum, to be exact.  But I can see that wouldn’t go here...  And I don’t believe you’re the least bit interested in orphans.”