The little dancer whose foot had slipped on the wet marble of wealth was shaken almost to pieces by philosophic vibrations too big for her exquisite frame. They reminded her of her poet, of Tommie Gilfoyle, who was afraid of her and paid court to her. He appeared to her now as a radiant angel of redemption. From Providence she telegraphed him that she would arrive at New York at eleven-fifteen, and he would meet her if he loved her. This done, she went to the lunch-counter, climbed on a tall stool, and bought herself a cheap dinner. She was paying for it out of her final moneys, and her brain once more told her stomach that it would have to be prudent. She swung aboard the train when it came in, and felt as secure as a lamb with a good shepherd on the horizon. When she grew drowsy she curled up on the seat and slept to perfection. Her invasion of Newport was over and done--disastrously done, she thought; but its results were just beginning for Jim Dyckman and Charity Coe. Eventually Kedzie reached the Grand Central Terminal--a much different Kedzie from the one that once followed her father and mother up that platform to that concourse! Her very name was different, and her mind had learned multitudes of things good and bad. She had a young man waiting for her--a poet, a socialist, a worshiper. Her heavy suit-case could not detain her steps. She dragged it as a little sloop drags its anchor in a gale. Gilfoyle was waiting for her at the barrier. He bent to snatch the suit-case from her and snatched a kiss at the same time. His bravery thrilled her; his gallantry comforted her immeasurably. She was so proud of herself and of him that she wasted never a glance at the powdered gold on the blue ceiling. “I'm terrible glad to see you, Tommie,” she said. “Are you? Honest?” he chortled. They jostled into each other and the crowd. “I'm awful hungry, though,” she said, “and I've got oodles of things to tell you.” “Let's eat,” he said. They went to the all-night dairy restaurant in the Terminal. He led her to one of the broad-armed chairs and fetched her dainties--a triangle of apple pie, a circle of cruller, and a cylinder of milk. She leaned across the arm of the chair and told him of her mishaps. He was so enraged that he knocked a plate to the floor. She snatched the cruller off just in time to save it, and the room echoed her laughter. They talked and talked until she was talked out, and it was midnight. He began to worry about the hour. It was a long ride on the Subway and then a long walk to her boarding-house and then a long walk and a long ride to his. “I hate to go back to that awful Jambers woman and let her know I'm fired,” Kedzie moaned. “My trunk's in storage, anyhow, and maybe she's got no room.” “Why go back?” said Tommie, not realizing the import of his words. It was merely his philosophical habit to ask every custom “Why?” “Where else is there to go to?” she sighed. “If we were only married--” he sighed. “Why, Tommie!”