"Oh," asked blue dress, "did you sublet your room?" "No," said the white linen suit, "I'll be gone for only a month, and I decided it wasn't worth while. I'll have it all ready when I get back. I've even left the key under the rug in the hall." "I wouldn't ever do that!" came the voice of the blue dress. "Well," said the linen suit, "you know _me_! I always lose keys. I'm convinced that when I get to Boston, I shan't have my trunk key! And there isn't much to steal." "Still, I'd feel nervous if I were you." "I don't see why. Nobody stays up on the top floor, where I am--that is, in the summer. All the other rooms are in one apartment, and the young man who lives there has been away for ages. The people on the ground floor own the house. I get the room for almost nothing by taking care of it and the hall. I haven't seen anyone else on the floor since the man in the apartment went away. That's why I love the place--you feel so independent!" "I think I know the house," said blue dress. "The old house with the fanlight entrance, isn't it? Mary Merle used to have a ducky little flat on the second floor, didn't she?" "Yes--Number Fifty-seven and a Half--" Susannah was floating down the Avenue now. But floating with more difficulty. Why was there effort about floating? And why did she keep repeating, "Number Fifty-seven and a Half, Washington Square, top floor, key under the rug?" She met few people. A policeman stared at her for a moment, then turned indifferently away. How surprising that her floating made no impression upon him! But then, there was no law against floating! Once she drifted past H. Withington Warner, who was staring into a shop window. He did not see her. Susannah had to inhibit her chuckles when, floating a foot above his head, she realized for the first time that he dyed his hair. Why could she see that? He should have his hat on--or was she seeing through his hat? She was passing under the arch into Washington Square. But she wasn't floating any longer. She was dragging weights; she was wading through something like tar, which clung to her feet. She was coughing violently. She had been coughing for a long time. Night in New York was no longer beautiful; glorious. Tragic horrors were rasping in her head. There was Warner. And there was Byan. She could not snap her fingers at them now.... But she knew how to get away from them ... she must rest.... She cut off a segment of Washington Square, looking for a number. There was a fanlight; and, plain in the street lamps, seeming for a moment the only object in the world, the number "Fifty-seven and a Half." The outer door gave to her touch. A dim point of gaslight burned in the hall. She floated again for a minute as she mounted the stairs.... She was before a door.... She was on her hands and knees fumbling under the rug.... She was dragging herself up by the door-knob.... The key opened the door.