Darcy stuck out a vindictive tongue at the discarded flower. Nobody ever sent _her_ roses! Dully musing upon the injustices of existence, she clambered up the third flight and leaned against the wall to rally her spent energies, with her hands thrust deep into the sagging pockets of her coat. Something light and scratchy rubbed against her bare forefinger, which was protruding from a hole in her glove. Being exhumed, it revealed itself as one of those tiny paper frills wherein high-priced candy is chastely attired. The departed bonbon had come from a box sent by Paul Wood, the architect, to Darcy’s other flat-mate, Helen Barrett, to whom he had just become engaged. Darcy let the inoffensive ornament flutter from her fingers to the floor and crushed it flat with a vengeful foot. Nobody ever sent _her_ candy in frilly collars! Nobody ever sent her anything! Oozing wretchedness and self-pity, she took the final flight in a rush, burst in upon the labors of Miss Gloria Greene, planted herself in the middle of the floor, dropped her work roll and kicked it as far as she could, and lifted up the voice of lamentation in the accepted phrase, duly made and provided for such of feminine sex and tender years as find the weary pattern of the world too tangled for their solving. “Oh, I wuh—wuh—wish I were duh—duh—dead!” mourned Miss Cole with violence. Gloria Greene dropped the typed sheets which she had been studying and rose from her chair. She looked down at the lumpy, lax figure of helpless, petulant rebellion before her. “Oh, you do, do you?” she remarked pensively. “Yes; I do!” “So do most people at one time or another,” was Miss Greene’s philosophical commentary upon this. “Not you,” declared Darcy, glancing up at the vivid face above her resentfully. “I’ll bet you’ve never known what it is to feel that way in your life.” “Oh, I’m too busy for such nonsense,” returned Gloria in her serene and caressing voice.