She swam to get out. Not yet ... some day ... she must swim in the other direction, away from shore, away from shore ... swim, swim till she sank. But something within her told her she was not ready. This dullness upon her mind, this fog fending her heart that was there since the month she was gone: let it be there longer. Was it beginning to part? --Why am I here? I am afraid to ask why I am here. Solid New York, bear me up! Longer, your cold surface, lift me, hold me! She swam to get out. She was up from her chair. Humming a tune she did not hear or know of, she lighted the gas: she clasped her short thick hair and thrust it atop her head. The gas danced hard on her eyes and her black hair. She lighted her little stove: she put water to boil: she was very busy swimming to get out. And when she had drunk two coddled eggs and eaten an orange, she took the blue cover from her couch, folded it carefully away, threw wide her windows: and with the light of the downtown heavens falling in sprays and fluffs of murmurous gold against her sombre carpet, she lay down. Soon she slept. * * * * * Work gripped her. Mr. Johns was delighted with her way of work. “Dont kill yourself, Mrs. Luve.” She smiled wistfully. “I shant die.” He looked at her warmly. “You say that as if you knew.” “I know.” “Perhaps you don’t know the deadliness of New York.” “I’m not ready yet,” she announced half to herself. “You’re a bad example,” he caressed her with bluff words, “of Southern indolence.” “I’m a New Yorker,” she said and went back to her girls. Always she knew this could not last. Yet always life came easier, easier ... in its harsh brusque work, in its biting flavor of intercourse with Mr. Johns, with Clara. Each night as she lay down to sleep, the question stood before her: Why? A question like a single point of steel piercing so many lives, piercing so many loves, all bleeding-spitted upon it. But she slept quick. She slept heavy. In her sleep, if it was parted at all, merely the Question again, rising up, up, out of sight like an infinite steel point: she was impaled on it: but bloodless already. She lay there quiet, impaled. She had no responsibility since she was bloodless already. And in the morning, when she awoke there was work. She entered the Office a breath of wistful quiet, a cloud of gentle moisture moving upon a sultry day. All who were there unthinking were glad, when she entered the Office. Clara found herself glad when she was with her. In the cooling dusk of summer they walked homeward: at times they dined together: quiet words went from each to each, no depths articulate and yet there was a peace. Fanny looked at her friend as they ate in silence. --Know everything! There is naught in me I do not wish you to know. But know it silent. She would have been happy to be of help to Clara.