And yet—­did she want to go back home?  Whenever she asked herself this question—­and it was often—­invariably for some silly reason, she saw the blue, wistful eyes of that hypocrite, the younger Peter Rolls.  Also there came upon her a choking sense of homelessness, a mother-want in a lonely world.  But, as Sadie Kirk agreed with her in saying, “What was the good of squeezing juice out of your eyes just because you happened to be low in your mind?” No, she would not cry!

Then, after all, she dropped asleep in a minute’s interval between trains, and dreamed that she was lost in Fifty-Ninth Street.  It was as long as the way to England, and a ghastly street to be lost in.  Its sky line—­if it knew anything about the sky—­was as irregular as a Wagner dragon’s teeth—­high buildings and low buildings, and shanties where coloured families lived; little, sinister-looking houses where people could be murdered and their bodies never found, shops where you could buy everything you didn’t want and nothing that you did.

In the dream black and white children were fighting and skating on roller skates over the pavement.  Cars were clanging bells.  Everybody and everything was making a noise of some sort.  Win was trying to get past the skaters and catch a car.  She must, or she would be late for something!  But what?  This was horrible.  She was going somewhere, and could not remember where or what she had to do.  She was lost forever, and had forgotten her name and the name of the street where she lived.  A roller-skating boy with the face of a black monkey threw her down, and a surface car and Peter Rolls’s automobile were about to run over her when she waked with a jump that shook the palsied bed.  Another “L” train booming by!

Despite lack of sleep and a tiredness of body that Sunday could not cure, Win had never looked more attractive than when, at precisely twelve forty-five on Monday afternoon she presented herself at Mr. Meggison’s door.

This was his private den, and a visit there, even on a less alarming errand than hers, was far more formidable than pausing for inspection at an office window.  Sadie, with the best intentions, had been able to give little encouragement There must be scolding or else flirting in prospect.  And Winifred’s eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, her head high, as the superintendent’s voice bade her “Come in.”

CHAPTER XIV

FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS

She went in.  Mr. Meggison sat in front of his roll-top desk.  No such world-shaking event as his rising to receive her took place.  His stenographer’s chair was vacant.  The cherubic aspect had for the moment dominated Mephistopheles.  Mr. Meggison was smiling.  But Win did not know whether to fear the smile or to thank her stars for it.

Little girls—­and sometimes big ones—­should be seen and not heard, so Win waited in meek, flushed silence for the great man to speak.