Frederick Towne never arrived in his office until ten o’clock. So Jane was ahead of him. She sat in a luxurious outer room, waiting.

To the right was a great open space—with desks boxed in by glass partitions. The wall paper was green, so that the people at the desks had the effect of fish in an aquarium. There was the constant staccato tap of typewriters, and now and then a girl got up, swam as it were, out of one of the glass boxes and into another.

The girls were most of them well dressed. Much better dressed than Jane who had on a cheap gray suit and a soft little hat of the same color. One of the girls, fair-haired and slender, was in the nearest glass box. She wore a black serge frock and a string of ivory beads. She looked to Jane much more distinguished than any of the others.

When Frederick came in he saw Jane at once, and held out his hand smiling. “You’ve heard from Edith?”

“Yes. Last night. Too late to let you know.”

“Good. We’ll go into my room.” He led the way, and Jane was at once aware of the effect of his cordial manner upon the fish who had been swimming in and out of the aquarium. Between the time of Frederick’s entrance and the moment when he closed the door upon them, they seemed to hang suspended. She supposed that after that they swam again.

If the outer room had resembled an aquarium, Frederick’s was like a forest—there was a plant or two and more green paper—the shine of old mahogany—and in one of the shadowy corners a bronze elephant.

Jane was thrilled by a sense of things happening. Outwardly calm, she was inwardly stirred by excitement.

She sat in a big leather chair which nearly swallowed her up, and stated her errand.

“Baldy thought I’d better come, he’s so busy, and anyhow he thinks I have more tact.” She tilted her chin at him and smiled.

“And you thought it needed tact.”

“Well, don’t you, Mr. Towne? We really haven’t a thing to do with it, and I’m sure you think so. Only now we’re in it, we want to do the best we can.”

“I see. Since Edith has chosen you and your brother as ambassadors, you’ve got to use diplomacy.”

“She didn’t choose me, she chose Baldy.”

“But why can’t she deal directly with me?”

“She ran away from you. And she isn’t ready to come back.”“She ought to come back.”

“She doesn’t think so. And she’s afraid you’ll insist.”

“What does she want me to do?”

“Send her the bag with the money and the check-book, and let Baldy take out a lot of things. She gave him a list; there’s everything from toilet water to talcum.”

“Suppose I refuse to send them?”

“You can, of course. But you won’t, will you?”

“No, I suppose not. I shan’t coerce her. But it’s rather a strange thing for her to be willing to trust all this to your brother. She has seen him only once.”

“Well,” said Jane, with some spirit, “you’ve seen Baldy only once, and wouldn’t you trust him?”

She flung the challenge at him, and quite surprisingly he found himself saying, “Yes, I would.”

“Well,” said Jane, “of course.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. Again he was aware of quickened emotions. She revived half-forgotten ardors. Gave him back his youth. She used none of the cut and dried methods of sophistication. She was fearless, absolutely alive, and in spite of her cheap gray suit, altogether lovely.

So it was with an air of almost romantic challenge that he said, “What would you advise?”“I’d let her alone, like little Bo-Peep. She’ll come home before you know it, Mr. Towne.”

“I wish that I could think it—however, it’s a great comfort to know that she’s safe. I shall give it out that she is visiting friends, and that I’ve heard from her. And now, about the things she wants. It seems absolutely silly to send them.”

“I don’t think it’s silly.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, clothes make such a lot of difference to a woman. I can absolutely change my feelings by changing my frock.”

“What kind of feelings do you have when you wear gray?”

“Cool and comfortable ones—do you know the delightful things that are gray? Pussy-willows, and sea-gulls, and rainy days—and oh, a lot of things”—she surveyed him thoughtfully, “and old Sheffield, and—well, I can’t think of everything.” She rose. “I’ll leave the list with you and you can telephone Baldy when to come for them.”

“Don’t go. I want to talk to you.”

“But you’re busy.”

“Not unless I want to be.”

“But I am. I have to go to market——”

“Briggs can take you over. I’ll call up the garage.”

“Briggs! Can you imagine Briggs driving through the streets of Washington with a pound of sausage and a three-rib roast?”“Do you mean that you are going to take your parcels back with you?”

“Yes. There aren’t any deliveries in Sherwood.”

He hesitated for a moment, then touched her shoulder lightly with his forefinger. “Look here. Let Briggs take you to market, then come back here, and we’ll run up to the house, get the things for lunch at Chevy Chase, and put you down, sausages, bags and all, at your own door in Sherwood.”

“Really?” She was all shining radiance.

“Really. You’ll do it then? Sit down a moment while I call up Briggs.”

He called the garage and turned again to Jane. “I’ll dictate some important letters, and be ready for you when you get back.”

Jane, being shown out finally by the elegant Frederick, was again aware of the interest displayed by the fish in the aquarium. She was also aware that the girl in black serge with the white beads had risen, and that Towne was saying, “When I come back you can take my letters, Miss Logan.”

He went all the way down to the first floor of the big building, and Jane and her cheap gray suit were once more under observation, this time by people on the sidewalk, as Briggs and Towne got her into the car. She rode away in great state and elegance. She was not quite sure whether she was really Jane Barnes. It seemed much more likely that she was Cinderella in a coach made out of a pumpkin, and that Briggs had been metamorphosed from a rat. She leaned against the luxury of the fawn-colored cushions, and overlooked the outside world of pedestrians. Until to-day she had been one of them, but now she rode above them—the limousine was like some stately galleon breasting the tides of traffic. Jane’s imagination carried her far. Even when she came to the market the enchantment persisted, especially when Briggs proved to be perfectly human and helpful instead of the automaton she had thought him. “If you don’t mind my going in with you, Miss,” he said, “I’d like it.”

So Jane went through the fine old market, with its long aisles brilliant with the bounty of field and garden, river, and bay and sea. There were red meats and red tomatoes and red apples, oranges that were yellow, and pumpkins a deeper orange. There were shrimps that were pink, and red-snappers a deeper rose. There was the gold of butter and the gold of honey—the green of spinach, the green of olives and the green of pickles in bowls of brine, there was the brown of potatoes overflowing in burlap bags, and the brown of bread baked to crustiness—the brown of the plumage of dead ducks—the white of onions and the white of roses.

Jane bought modestly and Briggs carried her parcels. He even made a suggestion as to the cut of the steak. His father, it seemed, had been a butcher.

They drove back then for Frederick. Briggs went up for him, and returned to say that Mr. Towne would be down in a moment.

Frederick was, as a matter of fact, finishing a letter to Delafield Simms:

“I am assuming that you will get your mail at the Poinciana, but I shall also send a copy to your New York office. Edith has asked me to return the ring to you. I shall hold it until I learn where it may be delivered into your hands.

“As for myself, I can only say this—that my first impulse was to kill you. But perhaps I am too civilized to believe that your death would make things better. You must understand, of course, that you’ve put yourself beyond the pale of decent people.”

Lucy’s pencil wavered—a flush stained her throat and cheeks—then she wrote steadily, as Frederick’s voice continued:

“You will find yourself blackballed by several of the clubs. Whatever your motive, the world sees no excuse.”

He stopped. “Will you read that over again, Miss Logan?”

So Lucy read it—still with that hot flush on her cheeks, and when she had finished Frederick said, “You can lock the ring in the safe until I give you further instructions.”

A clerk came in to say that the car was waiting, and presently Frederick Towne went away and Lucy was left alone in the great room, which was not to her a forest of adventure, as it had seemed to Jane, but a great prison where she tugged at her chains.

She thought of Delafield Simms sailing fast to southern waters. Of those purple seas—the blazing stars in the splendid nights. Delafield had told her of them. They had often talked together.

She turned the ring around on her finger, studying the carved figure. The woman with the butterfly wings was exquisite—but she did not know her name. She slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand. Its diamonds blazed.

She locked it presently in the safe—then came back and read the letter which Towne had signed. She sealed it and stamped the envelope. Then she wrote a letter of her own. She made a little ring of her hair, and fastened it to the page. Beneath it she wrote, “Lucy to Del—forever.” She kissed the words, held the crackling sheet against her heart. Her eyes were shining. The great room was no longer a prison. She saw beyond captivity to the open sea.