She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the end of her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting upon his hand.  Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the chemist came in.

“I think, if I were you, I should take her home now,” he remarked.  “She’ll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake up much stronger.  I have made up a prescription here in case of exhaustion.”

Tavernake stared at the man.  Take her home!  His sense of humor was faint enough but he found himself trying to imagine the faces of Mrs. Lawrence or Mrs. Fitzgerald if he should return with her to the boardinghouse at such an hour.

“I suppose you know where she lives?” the chemist inquired curiously.

“Of course,” Tavernake assented.  “You are quite right.  I dare say she is strong enough now to walk as far as the pavement.”

He paid the bill for the medicines, and they lifted her from the couch.  Between them she walked slowly into the outer shop.  Then she began to drag on their arms and she looked up at the chemist a little piteously.

“May I sit down for a moment?” she begged.  “I feel faint.”

They placed her in one of the cane chairs facing the door.  The chemist mixed her some sal volatile.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, “so sorry.  In a few minutes—­I shall be better.”

Outside, the throng of pedestrians had grown less, but from the great restaurant opposite a constant stream of motor-cars and carriages was slowly bringing away the supper guests.  Tavernake stood at the door, watching them idly.  The traffic was momentarily blocked and almost opposite to him a motor-car, the simple magnificence of which filled him with wonder, had come to a standstill.  The chauffeur and footman both wore livery which was almost white.  Inside a swinging vase of flowers was suspended from the roof.  A man and a woman leaned back in luxurious easy-chairs.  The man was dark and had the look of a foreigner.  The woman was very fair.  She wore a long ermine cloak and a tiara of pearls.

Tavernake, whose interest in the passing throngs was entirely superficial, found himself for some reason curiously attracted by this glimpse into a world of luxury of which he knew nothing; attracted, too, by the woman’s delicate face with its uncommon type of beauty.  Their eyes met as he stood there, stolid and motionless, framed in the doorway.  Tavernake continued to stare, unmindful, perhaps unconscious, of the rudeness of his action.  The woman, after a moment, glanced away at the shopwindow.  A sudden thought seemed to strike her.  She spoke through the tube at her side and turned to her companion.  Meanwhile, the footman, leaning from his place, held out his arm in warning and the car was slowly backed to the side of the pavement.  The lady felt for a moment in a bag of white satin which lay upon the round table in front of her, and handed a slip of paper through the open window to the servant who had already descended and was standing waiting.  He came at once towards the shop, passing Tavernake, who remained in the door-way.