depend on her returning the mantilla at the earliest possible moment, but that, exhausted as she was, she must utilize the few remaining minutes of daylight as well as the earlier hours of the morning to keep her promise.  To work long at night she knew was impossible.  She had not the eyes to follow the intricacies of the meshes with no other light than that afforded by Martha’s kerosene lamp.  She had tried it before, and had been forced to stop.

When she reached the cross street leading to Martha’s door, she hurried from the car, caught her skirts in her hand, a habit of hers when nervously hurried, and, summoning up all her strength, sped on, mounting the narrow, rickety steps with but a pause for breath on the last landing.  Once there, she took her latch-key from her pocket and unlocked the door, leaving it on the jar, as she knew Martha might come in at any moment.

As she entered the humble apartment, its restful seclusion, after her experience with Mangan, sent a thrill of thankfulness through her.  One after another the several objects passed in review—­the kettle singing on the stove, its ample bed of coals warming the room; her own tiny chamber, leading out of the one large room, with its small iron bedstead and white cotton quilt; the table with its lamp; the pine shelves with the few pieces of china, and even the big paper box in which her work was delivered and later returned to the shop, either by wagon or special messenger, and which Martha, before she had gone out, had placed on a chair near the door to keep it out of the dust.  All told her of peace and warmth and comfort.

She lighted the lamp, picked up the box containing the mantilla, and half raised the lid, intending to place the contents on her sewing-table, but, catching sight of the kettle again, she let the box lid drop from her hands.  She was chilled from the ride in the car, the water was boiling, and it would take but a minute to make herself a cup of tea.  This would give her renewed strength for her task.  Hardly had she drained her cup when she became conscious of a step on the stairs—­a steady, firm step.  Not Martha’s nor that of the boy.  Nor that of the expressman who often sought Martha’s apartment.

As it approached the landing, a sickening faintness assailed her.

She had heard that step before.

It was Felix!

Her hour of trial had come!

He would find the door ajar, stride into the room with that quiet, self-contained manner of his; and she must face him and stand ashamed!

For a brief instant she wavered, her resolution of the morning, to throw herself at his feet, put to flight by a sense of some impending terror.  Should she spring forward and shut the door before he reached it, refusing to admit him until Martha came, or should she creep noiselessly into her room and lock herself in, remaining silent until he should leave the premises, believing no one at home?  While she stood, half paralyzed with fear, the door moved gently, almost stealthily, swinging back half its width, and a man in cape-coat, and slouch hat drawn dose over his eyes, stepped into the room.