the faucets running after washing her switch and wrist-watch, they had reached the tub, which, like her happy heart, was now full to overflowing. And there, with a sudden noble resolve, the paperhanger, who knew little of such things, had decided to take a bath. In they flopped as one, and rose to the surface twain.
And as he clumb the slippery-soapy porcelain marge, Angela Bish sank to the bottom for the third time, her hopes drowning with her.
How long she stayed there, she never knew nor cared. But when she had dried her eyes and hair, he had fled. Seldom did she see him more.
From a roll of green cartridge paper she fashioned the simple robe in which she fledded. And all the way home on that Lexington Avenue car she sadly asked herself, “Why? Why? Why?”
Even thoughtless strangers, usually, as you know, so unsympathetic, gazing at her ultra-modish garb, and the gobs of paste upon her neck and pallid eyebrows, they likewise asked themselves, each other, and the conductor, “Why?”
