THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
ring of horse-shoes upon the asphalt she peered out eagerly, only to withdraw her head in disappointment.
"Why does he not hurry?"
It was twenty minutes past seven. If she was not out of the house before eight she was as good as lost. She shut her hands tightly and her teeth clicked. There was something in the tenseness of her expression that suggested she was throwing out her will, taking up invisibly a whip and beating the flanks of a jaded horse. A dray rumbled by; a taxicab sputtered noisily under the shadowy arch; a huckster's cart rattled eastward; and still the man did not come. Everything seemed to be fighting against her.
A tap sounded upon the panel of the door. She wheeled quickly, but remained where she was, undecided. The tap came again, with a little more emphasis. The girl cleared her throat.
"Come in."
The door opened.
"Oh, it is you, Mrs. Oliver!"
"Why, what's all this?" demanded the landlady, indicating the trunk and suit-case and the denuded walls.
"I am leaving in a few minutes. The rent of the piano has been paid to date. They will come for it to-morrow."
"Leaving? What in the world has happened?"
"I wish I could tell you, but I can't. I have lived three years in this room, and you have all been very good to me."
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