The girl seemed to have started out of
the shadows, and the emotion of her face dramatized its
beauty. She made a step toward the door.
"Can I do anything for you?" asked the editor of the
_Consul_, taking off his, hat.
"Nothing, thank you," Elfrida replied, looking beyond
him. "Unless you will kindly allow me to pass."
It was still raining doggedly, as it does in the the late
afternoon. Elfrida thought with a superlative pang of
discomfort of the three or four blocks that lay between
her and the nearest bake-shop. She put up her umbrella,
gathered her skirts up behind, and started wearily for
the Haymarket. She had never in her life felt so tired.
Suddenly a thrill of consciousness went up from her left
hand--the hand that held her skirts--such a thrill as
is known only to the sex that wills to have its pocket
there. She made one or two convulsive confirmatory clutches
at it from the outside, then, with a throe of actual
despair, she thrust her hand into her pocket. It was a
crushing fact, her purse was gone--her purse that held
the possibilities of her journalistic future molten and
stamped in eight golden sovereigns--her purse!
Elfrida cast one hopeless look at the pavement behind
her before she allowed herself to realize the situation.
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