“Yes; I’m going into the main office, too,” Thorny stated.  “Don’t you be afraid, Susan.  It’s as easy as pie.”

“Mr. Brauer said I could try it,” Miss Sherman shyly contributed.  But no other girl had been thus complimented.  Miss Kelly and Miss Garvey, both engaged to be married now, Miss Kelly to Miss Garvey’s brother, Miss Garvey to Miss Kelly’s cousin, were rather congratulating themselves upon the turn of events; the other girls speculated as to the wisest step to take next, some talking vaguely of post-office or hospital work; Miss Cashell, as Miss Thornton later said to Susan, hopelessly proving herself no lady by announcing that she could get better money as a coat model, and meant to get into that line of work if she could.

“Are we going to have lunch to-day?” somebody asked.  Miss Thornton thoughtfully drew a piece of paper toward her, and wet her pencil in her mouth.

“Best thing we can do, I guess,” she said.

“Let’s put ten cents each in,” Susan suggested, “and make it a real party.”

Thorny accordingly expanded her list to include sausages and a pie, cheese and rolls, besides the usual tea and stewed tomatoes.  The girls ate the little meal with their hats and wraps on, a sense of change filled the air, and they were all a little pensive, even with an unexpected half-holiday before them.

Then came good-bys.  The girls separated with many affectionate promises.  All but the selected three were not to return.  Susan and Miss Sherman and Thorny would come back to find their desks waiting for them in the main office next day.

Susan walked thoughtfully uptown, and when she got home, wrote a formal application for the position open in her school to little Miss Berrat in Sausalito.

It was a delightful, sunshiny afternoon.  Mary Lou, Mrs. Lancaster and Virginia were making a mournful trip to the great institution for the blind in Berkeley, where Virginia’s physician wanted to place her for special watching and treatment.  Susan found two or three empty hours on her hands, and started out for a round of calls.

She called on her aunt’s old friends, the Langs, and upon the bony, cold Throckmorton sisters, rich, nervous, maiden ladies, shivering themselves slowly to death in their barn of a house, and finally, and unexpectedly, upon Mrs. Baxter.

Susan had planned a call on Georgie, to finish the afternoon, for her cousin, slowly dragging her way up the last of the long road that ends in motherhood, was really in need of cheering society.

But the Throckmorton house chanced to be directly opposite the old Baxter mansion, and Susan, seeing Peter’s home, suddenly decided to spend a few moments with the old lady.

After all, why should she not call?  She had had no open break with Peter, and on every occasion his aunt had begged her to take pity on an old woman’s loneliness.  Susan was always longing, in her secret heart, for that accident that should reopen the old friendship; knowing Peter, she knew that the merest chance would suddenly bring him to her side again; his whole life was spent in following the inclination of the moment.  And today, in her pretty new hat and spring suit, she was looking her best.