Here was a woman on her mettle at last, asking no odds of heaven. So long as you have a husband, it is natural to remain in prayerful communication with Providence for help and guidance, but when your husband has abandoned you there is no such tearful feminine reason for engaging the assistance of the Almighty. You may do it later; but for the moment you feel quite alone in the universe. CHAPTER XVI Sometime after midnight Helen stirred herself, much as if she was awaking early in the morning with a busy day before her. She stood up, stared about her in the shadowy room, moved to the windows and pulled down all the shades. Then she turned on the lights. She stood directly beneath the chandelier, lifted her hand to her head, unpinned her hair, skewed it up tightly and pinned it like a harsh duty on the back of her head. It was perfectly evident that she had made up her mind to do something, and to do it thoroughly. She had a sort of merciless house-cleaning expression. She glanced around the room, reached for two Cutter photographs on the mantel, removed a recent excellent likeness of her husband from a frame on the piano and left the room, carrying these things in her hand and the frames under her arm. She paused long enough in the back hall to lay the frames on the bottom step of the attic stairs. Then she went out on the back porch and dropped the photographs down the cellar steps. She walked briskly back to her own room. For the next hour she went through the house--drawers, closets and trunks--like the fine-toothed-comb of femininity, her cheeks scarlet, her lips primped purposefully, her eyes wide and busy, like the condemning eyes of a censor who is determined to leave nothing that should be cut out, removed and destroyed. From time to time she issued forth, her arms laden with somebody’s worldly goods, obviously a man’s things, to toss them down the cellar stairs and return for more. Finally she came out with a shaving brush, the cord of a bathrobe and an old four-in-hand tie, evidently the last gleanings. She descended the stairs, clearing the steps as she went of shirts, collars, trousers, dress suits, overcoats, hats, brushes, shoes, slippers, pajamas, even buttons. She worked hurriedly, cramming this mass of clothing into the hot air furnace. She struck a match to these things, watched the flame creep greedily along the sleeve of a fine white shirt and lick the broadcloth back of a Tuxedo coat. Then she closed the door, went back upstairs, took a glance around, to make sure that everything was in its usual order, withdrew at last to her own room, undressed, let down her hair, braided it, turned out the light and went to bed.