She reached the apartment: the door was locked and she had forgotten the key. Sobbing with increasing vigour, she lifted the screen from the front window, raised the sash, and climbed in. She found the sofa in the dark and lay down. Outside in the street an automobile passed, swishing by the wall. Someone was carrying a Victrola in it and playing a record. She remembered the Ball tonight and sat up, with her head throbbing. What time was it? Had Harvey called before she got home? No, it couldn’t be that late. She leaped up and turned on the light. Eight o’clock, and the room was in a mess of cigarette stubs and clothes flung over all the chairs. Flo must have put on her costume in a hurry. The ’phone suddenly began to ring, and she picked it up. “Gin?” It was Harvey. “I’ve been calling for hours: they said at the office you were in town all afternoon. Where’ve you been?” “Oh, I went riding.” “Well, gosh, I thought you’d run out on me. Are you ready?” “Listen, Harvey, I can’t go.” She paused, then repeated, “I can’t.” “What? Why not? Are you sick? You sound sick. What——” “No, but something terrible has happened.” “What is it?” “Wally’s dead.” “Who’s dead?” “Wally, down at the stable.” “Oh, that’s a darned shame. That’s too bad. What killed him?” “The Indians.” “_What?_ Come off!” “No, the Mexican Indians. Yaquis or something. They shot him for his horse and saddle, and he’s dead.” “That’s certainly a darned shame. I don’t think I ever knew him, but——Well, why can’t you come out tonight, anyway?” “Why, Harvey. I can’t. Don’t you see? I can’t go.” “No, I don’t see.” He sounded very irritated. “You mean because this cowboy is dead? What’s that got to do with you? Were you crazy about this bird?” “No, but....” she hesitated. It was hard to express. “Don’t you see, he’s dead and buried and all that. I can’t go on a party. I knew him. I used to go riding with him, and now he’s——” “Say,” he said flatly, “I don’t see that at all. You’re just worked up over nothing. You’re alone down there, aren’t you?” “Ye-es.” Her voice was uncertain. “Now I tell you what you’d better do. You wash your face and get ready and I’ll be right down, as soon as I get dressed. I’ve got to shave. Is there anything to drink down there?” “I don’t know.” She spoke humbly. She was beginning to feel very foolish and useless. “Well, you fix a drink and take it. That’ll help you. You’ve just got the blues, that’s all. It’s a shame he’s dead, but you better take a drink. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He was very comforting, but she wished that he hadn’t called just then. She looked dolefully into the bathroom mirror, at her swollen streaked face. Why did she always have to act so dramatic? She rubbed cold cream into her cheeks and felt the tank. There was enough hot water for a bath.