I went draggingly through the lobby of the hotel. The desk clerk hailed me with the abominable optimism of those who see the old year out: “It cleared up for the New Year, didn’t it, Mrs. Avery?” I plodded past the desk, my storm shoes flapping and my spirits going down into the melted snow with which by now they were filled. I took the elevator up to the new heights of Nicholas Van Suydam’s city. The curtains were drawn back, as only an occasional venturesome bird peeped in. The view at night was extravagant; spangled with lights heaped in pyramidal form, the city might have been the scene of Cinderella’s party. But, my mind inflamed by the supposititious plight of those of us who were encroaching strangers, I ran across the room and pulled the curtains together. Within the short space of time since my return the weather had again changed; a few flakes of snow, large as feathers, blew against the panes. Weather--and women, Nicholas would perhaps say, and be correct in saying it--changed with no apparent reason. Man was foolish to worry over either. Let storm, meteorological or human, come when it would, but let man keep his safe course. I admonished myself: “James Pomeroy would say that living on the thirtieth floor is making a queer bird out of you, Dinah Avery. Get back to normal and hurry to the next party.” But I was so late that when I went by for Eva they had gone without me. The desk clerk had telephoned to several cab stands before one of the wheeziest vehicles still in the business pulled up at the kerb, stalled its engine, started, and ran over the kerbstone and shuddered. Dubiously, I entrusted my life to it. The wheels spun industriously, but the short distance to the establishment of those two babes in the wood known as the Little Metcalfs took nearly an hour. The drifts were high and in the side streets would remain without the guiding shovels of the street cleaners until another day. It was a hazard, to get across the sidewalk when eventually I arrived. Snow banks gleamed under the light from the opening door of the house. I climbed stairs, fought through guests massed in the narrow hall, and stamped my own contribution of snow on the rugs in Yancey Metcalf’s gay bedroom. Another braving of the hall, where a misstep would precipitate a broken body down the well of the stairs, and I was in the large studio and already distinguishing Eva’s laughter. The studio was filled with her friends; and she hugged to her heart the desire to believe that humanity meant what it said.