The silence of the flat was no longer to be endured.  And Janet, putting on her coat and hat, descended the stairs.  Not once that morning had her mother mentioned Lise; nor had she asked about her own plans—­about Ditmar.  This at least was a relief; it was the question she had feared most.  In the street she met the postman.

“I have a letter for you, Miss Janet,” he said.  And on the pink envelope he handed her, in purple ink, she recognized the unformed, childish handwriting of Lise.  “There’s great doings down at the City Hall,” the postman added “the foreigners are holding mass meetings there.”  Janet scarcely heard him as she tore open the envelope.  “Dear Janet,” the letter ran.  “The doctor told me I had a false alarm, there was nothing to it.  Wouldn’t that jar you?  Boston’s a slow burg, and there’s no use of my staying here now.  I’m going to New York, and maybe I’ll come back when I’ve had a look at the great white way.  I’ve got the coin, and I gave him the mit to-night.  If you haven’t anything better to do, drop in at the Bagatelle and give Walters my love, and tell them not to worry at home.  There’s no use trying to trail me.  Your affectionate sister Lise.”

Janet thrust the letter in her pocket.  Then she walked rapidly westward until she came to the liver-coloured facade of the City Hall, opposite the Common.  Pushing through the crowd of operatives lingering on the pavement in front of it, she entered the building....

THE DWELLING-PLACE OF LIGHT

By WINSTON CHURCHILL VOLUME 3.

CHAPTER XV

Occasionally the art of narrative may be improved by borrowing the method of the movies.  Another night has passed, and we are called upon to imagine the watery sunlight of a mild winter afternoon filtering through bare trees on the heads of a multitude.  A large portion of Hampton Common is black with the people of sixteen nationalities who have gathered there, trampling down the snow, to listen wistfully and eagerly to a new doctrine of salvation.  In the centre of this throng on the bandstand—­reminiscent of concerts on sultry, summer nights—­are the itinerant apostles of the cult called Syndicalism, exhorting by turns in divers tongues.  Antonelli had spoken, and many others, when Janet, impelled by a craving not to be denied, had managed to push her way little by little from the outskirts of the crowd until now she stood almost beneath the orator who poured forth passionate words in a language she recognized as Italian.  Her curiosity was aroused, she was unable to classify this tall man whose long and narrow face was accentuated by a pointed brown beard, whose lips gleamed red as he spoke, whose slim hands were eloquent.  The artist as propagandist—­the unsuccessful artist with more facility than will.  The nose was classic, and wanted strength; the restless eyes that at times seemed fixed on her were smouldering