"Glorious Lutie," she apostrophized it, "you don't know how I wish you were here. You don't know how much I need you now. I need you so much, Glorious Lutie--I'm frightened!" The miniature, after the impersonal manner of pictures, made no response to this call for help. Susannah sighed deeply. And for a moment she stood a figure almost tragic, her eyes darkening as she looked into space, her young mouth setting its soft scarlet into hard lines. In another moment she pulled herself out of this daze and continued her dressing. An hour and a half later, when, cool and lithe in her blue linen suit, she entered the uptown skyscraper which housed the Carbonado Mining Company, her spirits took a sudden leap. After all, here _was_ help. It was not the help she most desired and needed--the confidence and advice of another woman--but at least she would get instant sympathy, ultimate understanding. Anyone, however depressed his mood, must have felt his spirits rise as he stepped into the Admolian Building. It was so new that its terra-cotta walls without, its white-enameled tiling within, seemed always to have been freshly scrubbed and dusted. It was so high that, with a first acrobatic impulse, it leaped twenty stories above ground; and with a second, soared into a tower which touched the clouds. That had not exhausted its strength. It dug in below ground, and there spread out into rooms, eternally electric-lighted. From the eleventh story up, its wide windows surveyed every purlieu of Manhattan. Its spacious elevators seemed magically to defy gravitation. A touch started their swift flight heavenward; a touch started their soft drop earthward. Every floor housed offices where fortunes were being made--and lost--at any rate, changing hands. There was an element of buoyancy in the air, an atmosphere of success. People moved more quickly, talked more briskly, from the moment they entered the Admolian Building. As always, it raised the spirits of Susannah Ayer. The set look vanished from her eyes; some of their normal brilliancy flowed back into them. Her mouth relaxed-- When the elevator came to a padded halt at the eighteenth floor, she had become almost herself again. She stopped before the first in a series of offices. Black-printed letters on the ground glass of the door read: 46 Carbonado Mining Company Private. Enter No. 47 An accommodating hand pointed in the direction of No. 47. Susannah unlocked the door and with a little sigh, as of relief, stepped in. Other offices stretched along the line of the corridor, bearing the inscriptions, respectively, "No. 48, H. Withington Warner, President and General Manager; No. 49, Joseph Byan, Vice-President; No. 50, Michael O'Hearn, Secretary and Treasurer." Ultimately, Susannah's own door would flaunt the proud motto, "No. 51, Susannah Ayer, Manager Women's Department."