At Louisa's ugly bonnet, at the damp and shapeless shoulders of the gray coat, at her own pallor, at the deep shadows under her tired eyes, into her own eyes, and saw the whole drab mirrored ghost of the woman who had been the young Felicia. And through the telephone rang Dudley Hamilt's eager voice, as eager as it had been that night when he clambered over the gate. "Tell me quickly where you are--I must see you--oh, your voice sounds as though I'd not lost you at all--" he laughed nervously like an embarrassed boy, "I want to see you--" he repeated inadequately. She thought quickly, she could think of only one thing and that was that Dudley Hamilt must NOT see her. "Let's pretend," she interrupted him, her low contralto voice trembling, "Let's pretend that I'm somewhere you can't see me--I only wanted--to tell you that I had your letter. I wanted you to know how happy it made me to have it. Dudley Hamilt--" The receiver dropped from her hand; somewhere back of her the giggling grew fainter and farther away. She shook her head weakly when the drug clerk hurried with a glass of water. She was swaying, dimly conscious of the awe in the face of the girl who was hastening toward her. "Oh, she looks awfully ill--" she heard a dismayed voice. "I'm not ill--" her proud chin lifted. She was pulling herself together again, she even managed to stand by holding one hand on the edge of the table. The whirling blackness of the moment had passed. Even while the clerk was hastily calling back the judge's chauffeur, the drooping little figure had straightened itself. "I think the lady was kinda faint," mumbled the clerk, mechanically replacing the dangling receiver. "She's O.K. now--ain't you?" "Did you find where you wanted to go?" the man's respectful query helped her. "If it's not too far," she answered with dignity, "I think I'd like to go to my own house--it's in a street called Montrose Place." Inside the car her head drooped, she felt the new Babiche licking her lifeless hand, she felt the whir of the motor. It vibrated through every jangling nerve of her weary body. The whole impossible journey was like a nightmare. "That wasn't I, I saw in there--" her thoughts blurred, "it's just a dreadful dream--that wasn't Felice I saw--oh, Dudley Hamilt--I was so pretty that night! And now I'm just old--like Grandy--like Piqueur--" After a million years--or was it after one little minute?--the car stopped easily. Like the dream that Felicia had hoped the whole dreadful day had been. She opened her eyes as though she might have been waking up in the bed that Poquelin, the father of Moliere, had carved. "This," said the judge's chauffeur dubiously, "is Montrose Place." She got out slowly, tucking Babiche mechanically under her arm. The man lifted out her bag and touched his cap,--she did not even see him go.