with the woman and won’t do a single extra thing; and all my marketing for to-day and to-morrow because to-morrow’s Memorial Day and they close at noon; and stop at the real estate agent’s on Fifty-third to see them about the wall paper before I came down. I didn’t even have time to swallow a cup of tea. And yet I was here at two. You haven’t a thing to do. Not a blessed thing, living at a hotel. It does seem to me � “

So then here it was 2.07, and Hannah Winter, rather panicky, was rushing along Peacock Alley, dodging loungers, and bell-boys, and travelling salesmen and visiting provincials and the inevitable red-faced delegates with satin badges. In her hurry and nervous apprehension she looked, as she scuttled down the narrow passage, very much like the Rabbit who was late for the