Miss Van Dyke's Best Story
proached her desk, Miss Van Dyke saw the placard hung on the wall. On her table were bottles, glasses, cigarette stumps, and other reminders of her recent experience. They watched her look at these, and then brush them aside, her pale cheeks flushing as she caught the implication. They noticed her slight figure straighten as she read the lurid sentiment on the wall. Then she tore it down and dropped it into her waste-paper basket, brushing the débris from her desk into the same receptacle as she took her seat. Several of the men who liked her, and who had thought that a little experience of the kind she was having might do her good, now felt that the matter had gone far enough, and rose to speak to her. They were interrupted by conversational pleasantries bearing on the case from some of the younger men scattered about the room. One of these, a youth to whom Miss Van Dyke had always objected, and whom she had rather pointedly avoided, sauntered up to her now with a lounging familiarity that made the blood of her champions boil.
"Why did n't you take me with you last
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