Clear and still as one of those miniature landscapes enclosed in a crystal ball, Central Park shimmered all snow and sunshine. Goaded by torturing thoughts, Claire trudged stoically forward. Behind her, mincing carefully upon the crisp carpet of snow followed Bébé, shivering but dutiful. It was Sunday and the path was crowded by eager people; skates clanging metallically from their arms, faces rosy from the cold. Unmindful of the titters called forth by Bébé's diminutive size and enormous dignity, Claire passed through the throng unawares. It seemed scarcely possible that it was only last night she had taken Mrs. Schuyler to Alexis. So endless had seemed the intervening hours, so weighted with tragedy. Then this morning had come the ultimatum from the doctor, communicated briskly over the telephone by the cool voice of the nurse. Mr. Petrovskey was decidedly better, but she and his mother were requested not to attempt to see him for several days, as all undue excitement would be extremely bad, not to say dangerous to the patient in his present condition. That was all. Not a word had been said about Mrs. Schuyler or whether Alexis was yet aware of her presence. And Claire had not cared to ask. Bitter intuition flooded her, creating a succession of images, distorted, exaggerated, but fundamentally true. Anne sitting by Alexis, smoothing his pillow; holding his hand, flooding his being with the subtle magnetism of her beauty. Images constantly unwinding themselves, like the reels in a cinematic film. Until Claire's nerves were raw and writhing. Half-maddened, she had thrown on hat and coat, and with Bébé in her stormy wake, had gone to the park. It was the stereotyped, daily walk, and yet as usual the crisp air, the glittering sunshine undefinably assuaged her shrieking nerves. "Hey, lady, stop a minute!" Heedless of the peremptory voice at her elbow, Claire walked on. "Say, stop there, you lady with the pup!" The finger of authority upon her arm, Claire turned about in astonishment. "Were you speaking to me?" she inquired in amazement of the burly policeman at her side. "I wuz!" The tone was highly ironic. "How about the muzzle?" "Oh," Claire suddenly understood. "Why, I thought he was too small to need a muzzle. Besides, he has hardly any teeth left anyhow!" The policeman smiled sarcastically. "That's the same old gag! They never has any teeth. Not till they bite some uppish old geezer, and a feller like me loses his job for lettin' 'em loose on the street! Name? Address?" He took out a small book and looked at Claire ferociously. Her indifference scarcely rippled, Claire was about to comply, when a man crossed the street and interposed himself between them. "What's the matter, Bill? Afraid the flea'll bite you?" exclaimed a jocular voice. "Here, take this, that's good medicine for flea bites. I ought to know, I'm a doctor. Am I not, Mrs. Petrovskey?"