The hotel pages, smart-looking in their tight-fitting uniforms with gold braid and buttons, hurried here and there, scurrying through the lobbies and drawing-rooms, calling out the names of guests who were wanted.

It was five o’clock and the bustle at the hotel was at its height.  Guests were constantly arriving from train and steamer; others were departing, tipping their way out royally.  Porters, their backs bent under the weight of heavy baggage, and waiters, their trays heaped up with silver dishes, pushed unceremoniously through the crowd.  Women, fashionably gowned, were promenading the halls, or sipping tea in the palm garden; others sat in little groups watching the animated scene.  Men of all conditions—­preachers, actors, politicians, gamblers—­stood in the lobbies, chatting and smoking, blocking the way so that it was almost impossible to pass.  From the open doors of the brilliantly illuminated cafe came the noise and laughter of popping corks, the metallic ring of money, and the sound of men’s voices in dispute.  In another corner was heard the click of telegraph instruments and the industrious, perpetual rattle of typewriters.  At the front entrance a doorman, resplendent in gold lace, was having a heated altercation with an obstreperous cabman.  The desk was literally besieged by a pushing, unmannerly mob of persons, each of whom wanted to be waited on before the other, while haughty clerks, moving about with languid grace, tried to satisfy requests of every conceivable kind.  There was nothing extraordinary in this apparent commotion.  It suggested pandemonium; it was really only a rather dull and uneventful day in the ordinary routine of a big metropolitan hotel.

Virginia sat back in her chair and stretched herself.  Every bone in her body ached.  She had worked steadily since 8 o’clock that morning, with only a brief respite for lunch, and the fatigue was beginning to tell upon her.  Formerly she could have done twice as much without feeling it, but since her marriage she had gotten out of the way of it.  Her muscles were stiff; her recent luxurious mode of living had unfitted her for the strenuous life she used to lead.  She had regained her independence, but it had not been without a bitter struggle.

It was a great shock to Fanny when her sister walked in on her that afternoon now some three months ago and quietly told her that she had left Robert for good.  At first the elder sister laughed, not believing it, and then, when she saw by Virginia’s face that it was only too true, she broke down and cried.  They fell into each others’ arms and wept together, just as they had done many times before when they were children.