Now, however, she gave way. She buried her little face on the pillow
which so brief a while before had been pressed by the round head of
William Bannister and mourned like a modern Niobe.
At the end of two minutes she rose, sniffing but courageous, herself
again. In her misery an idea had come to her. It was quite a simple and
obvious idea, but till now it had eluded her.
She would go round to the studio and see Kirk. After all, it was his
affair as much as anybody else's, and she had a feeling that it would
be easier to break the news to him than to Ruth and Mrs. Porter.
She washed her eyes, put on her hat, and set out.
Luck, however, was not running her way that morning. Arriving at the
studio, she rang the bell, and rang and rang again without result
except a marked increase in her already substantial depression. When it
became plain to her that the studio was empty she desisted.
It is an illustration of her remarkable force of character that at this
point, refusing to be crushed by the bludgeoning of fate, she walked to
Broadway and went into a moving-picture palace. There was nothing to be
effected by staying in the house and worrying, so she resolutely
declined to worry.
From this point onward her day divided itself into a series of three
movements repeated at regular intervals. From the moving pictures she
went to the house on Fifth Avenue.
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