The Blood Red Dawn

rst hectic flush of dawn there is nothing so sane and sweet and commonplace as morning. The spectacle of Mrs. Finnegan, who lodged in the

would come!... A package came from New York for you. The man nearly banged your door down. I had Finnegan put it on your back stoop.... It's from that cousin of yours, I guess. I was

y good of you to take all that t

t knew how crazy I'd be about a box. I guess we women ar

te. But, as a matter of fact, the prospect of delving through a box of Gertrude Sinclair's discarded finery moved her this morning to a dull fury. She felt suddenly tired of cast-offs, of compromise, of all the other shabby adjustments of genteel poverty. And

assistant, a thin, hollow-chested spinster, who loafed upon her job so that she might save her sight for the manufactur

to hell!... Yes, positively, she used those very words. And I must say he was a gentleman throughout it all. He told he

unch was never the recipient of Mr. Flint's attentions, which to the casual eye might have seemed innocent enough-on rainy days gallantly bending his ample girth in a rather too prolonged attempt to slip on the girls' rubbers, insisting on the quite unnecessary task of incasing them in their jackets and smoothing the slee

r morning work. But the excitement persisted in spite of the scattered auditors, and the fact was mysteriously communicated that Miss Munch's interest in t

ummed three times. This announced that she was wanted by Mr. Fli

entered the private office. She seated herself

the window. On his desk was the inevitable picture of his wife framed in silver, a hand-illumined platitude of Stevenson, an elaborate set of desk paraphernalia in beaten brass that bore little evidence of service. In two green-glazed bowls of Japanese origin, roses from Mr. Flint's garden at Yo

lf slowly. Her unhurried movements had a certain grace that did not escape the man opposite her. She tossed the bruised leav

e rumpus," Mr. Flint was saying. "I had to fire M

ng. Mr. Flint left his sea

e girls, of course, don't care a damn about getting on ... especially if there's

," Claire faltered. "You see, the

I mean, not exactly bothering about how many lumps of sugar they take in their coffee, or their taste in after-dinner cheese ... but, well, just how often they ha

er shorthand book she said, more confidently: "To be quite frank, Mr. Fl

the nastiness. For instance, you wouldn't be bothered in the least if I took a notion to overload the office with another pretty gir

pockets, his broad fingers beating a self-satisfied tattoo upon his thighs. Claire shrank nearer

whys and wherefores of anything I do.... But one thing is certain enough-if Miss Munch had been the

Flint! I'

l the more of a corker!" he answered, rubbing

ead thrown back in an attitude of instinctive defense, and

s is pleasant! I'm just dr

. Stillman stood

is never quite taken unawares. Claire, outwardly calm, felt overcom

s upon her al

an?" Miss Munch asked,

laire, with unco

per for his wife's father.... You

tled glance that was almost as instant

" she

oo bad you've had to be bothered with Flint's dictation, Miss Robson. It just happens I'

." The speech in itself was nothing, but Claire's tone gave it unmistakable point. Miss Munch grew white and then flushed. She tur

ank to Kearny Street. She liked this old thoroughfare, struggling vainly to pull itself up to its former glory. The Kearny Street crowd was a varying quantity, frankly shabby or flashily prosperous, as far south as Sutter Street, suddenly dignified and reserved for the two blocks beyond. To-night Claire missed the direct appeal of the streets lined with bright shops. They formed the proper background for her broodings, but they scarcely entered into her mood. She could not have said just what flight her mood was taking, or upon just which branch her thought would alight. She was confused and puzzled and vaguely uneasy. She had a sense that somehow, somewhere, a door had been opened and that a strong, devasta

ought a half-dozen French pastries. The thought of her mother's pleasur

t the head of the stairs; about half-way up t

e what Gertrude has sent! Ev

, scraps of vivid silks, gilded slippers, a spangled fan-their unrelated vividness struck Claire as fantastic as a futurist painting. Her mother seemed suddenly young again.

rich design of dull gold. "Isn't this heavenly?" she demanded. "And it

sensible? What possessed her to load us up with a lot

ice. Mrs. Robson cast aside the dress with the carelessness of a spoile

it is, they shoved you out to work. What chance have you of meeting nice people? No, Claire, I don't care how they have treated me, but they might have given you a chance. I'll never forgive them for that!... I thought last night when I was talking to Mrs. Condor and watching you and Mr. Stillman how nice it would have been if.... Oh, that reminds me! Who do you think has been here to-day?... Mrs. Towne! She came to apologize about asking us to move our seats the other night.

ckage of pastries. "I heard abo

hole thing from A to Z," in

n the details," Clair

her finery from the mysterious depths of the treasure-box. Her daughter cast a last incurious glance back. The glow on Mrs. Robson's face, which

rienced. The person who should have been closest suddenly had b