On the morning of the eighth day Quincy stood upon the steps of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He was undecided which way to go. It is in such cases of absolute uncertainty that unseen powers should give their aid, if they ever do, for then it is most needed. He did not hear any angels' voices, but he crossed over Broadway and started up town on the right-hand side of that great thoroughfare. As he walked on he glanced at the shop windows, for they were resplendent with holiday gifts, for Christmas was only one short week away. Just beyond the corner of Broadway and Twenty-ninth Street his attention was attracted by a wax figure in a milliner's window. The face and golden hair reminded him of his wife, and he thought how pretty Alice would look in the hat that was upon the head of the figure. His first inclination was to go in and buy it, then he thought that it would make an unhandy package to carry with him, and besides his taste might not be appreciated. Thinking, however, that he might return and purchase it, he glanced up at the sign. One look and he gave a sudden start backward, coming violently in contact with a gentleman who was passing. Quincy's apology was accepted and the gentleman passed on, giving his right shoulder an occasional pressure to make sure that it was not dislocated. Then Quincy took another look at the sign to make sure that he had not been mistaken. On it he read, in large golden letters, "Mdme. Archimbault." It was but the work of an instant for Quincy to enter the store and approach the only attendant, who was behind the counter nearest the door. "Could I see Mdme. Archimbault?" he inquired in the politest possible manner. "Ze madame eez seeck zis morning, monsieur, mais ze Mademoiselle Celeste eez in ze boudoir." As she said this she pointed to a partition with windows of ground glass, which extended across the farther end of the store, evidently forming a private department for trying on hats and bonnets. Quincy said nothing, but taking out his cardcase passed one to the attendant. The girl walked towards the boudoir, opened the door and entered. Quincy followed her, and was but a few feet from the door when it was closed. He heard a woman's voice say, "What is it, Hortense?" And the girl's reply was distinctly audible. This is what she said, "A veezitor, mademoiselle." An instant's silence, followed by a smothered cry of astonishment, evidently from mademoiselle. Then ensued a short conversation, carried on in whispers. Then Hortense emerged from the boudoir, and facing Quincy said, "Ze mademoiselle weel not zee you. She has no desire to continue ze acquaintance."