I felt terribly lonely, all at once, and
sad. There wasn't any one any nearer than father, in the West, or
mother in Bermuda, who really cared a rap whether I sat on that
parapet all night or not, or who would be sorry if I leaped to
the dirty bricks of the next door-yard--not that I meant to, of
course.
The lights came out across the river, and made purple and yellow
streaks on the water, and one of the motor boats came panting
back to the yacht club, coughing and gasping as if it had
overdone. Down on the street automobiles were starting and
stopping, cabs rolling, doors slamming, all the maddening,
delightful bustle of people who are foot-free to dine out, to
dance, to go to the theater, to do any of the thousand
possibilities of a long February evening. And above them I sat on
the roof and cried. Yes, cried.
I was roused by some one coughing just behind me, and I tried to
straighten my face before I turned. It was Flannigan, his double
row of brass buttons gleaming in the twilight.
"Excuse me, miss," he said affably, "but the boy from the hotel
has left the dinner on the doorstep and run, the cowardly little
divil! What'll I do with it? I went to Mrs. Wilson, but she says
it's no concern of hers." Flannigan was evidently bewildered.
"You'd better keep it warm, Flannigan," I replied.
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