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private life。 She joined an afternoon sewing club； and was active in the
ladies' branch of the U。C。T。 She developed a knack at cooking； too； and
Orville； after a week or ten days of hotel fare in small Wisconsin towns；
would come home to sea…foam biscuits； and real soup； and honest pies and
cake。 Sometimes； in the midst of an appetizing meal he would lay down
his knife and fork and lean back in his chair； and regard the cool and
unruffled Terry with a sort of reverence in his eyes。 Then he would get
up； and come around to the other side of the table； and tip her pretty face
up to his。
〃I'll bet I'll wake up； someday； and find out it's all a dream。 You
know this kind of thing doesn't really happennot to a dub like me。〃
One year； two； three； four。 Routine。 A little boredom。 Some
impatience。 She began to find fault with the very things she had liked in
him： his superneatness； his fondness for dashing suit patterns； his throaty
tenor； his worship of her。 And the flap。 Oh； above all； that flap！ That
little； innocent； meaningless mannerism that made her tremble with
nervousness。 She hated it so that she could not trust herself to speak of it
to him。 That was the trouble。 Had she spoken of it； laughingly or in
earnest； before it became an obsession with her； that hideous breakfast
quarrel； with its taunts； and revilings； and open hate； might never have
come to pass。
Terry Platt herself didn't know what was the matter with her。 She
would have denied that anything was wrong。 She didn't even throw her
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hands above her head and shriek： 〃I want to live！ I want to live！ I
want to live！〃 like a lady in a play。 She only knew she was sick of
sewing at the Wetona West End Red Cross shop； sick of marketing； of
home comforts； of Orville； of the flap。
Orville； you may remember； left at 8：19。 The 11：23 bore Terry
Chicago…ward。 She had left the house as it wasbeds unmade； rooms
unswept； breakfast table uncleared。 She intended never to come back。
Now and then a picture of the chaos she had left behind would flash
across her order…loving mind。 The spoon on the tablecloth。
Orville's pajamas dangling over the bathroom chair。 The coffeepot
on the gas stove。
〃Pooh！ What do I care？〃
In her pocketbook she had a tidy sum saved out of the housekeeping
money。 She was naturally thrifty； and Orville had never been niggardly。
Her meals when Orville was on the road had been those sketchy；
haphazard affairs with which women content themselves when their
household is manless。 At noon she went into the dining car and ordered a
flaunting little repast of chicken salad and asparagus and Neapolitan ice
cream。 The men in the dining car eyed her speculatively and with
appreciation。 Then their glance dropped to the third finger of her left
hand； and wandered away。 She had meant to remove it。 In fact； she had
taken it off and dropped it into her bag。 But her hand felt so queer； so
unaccustomed； so naked； that she had found herself slipping the narrow
band on again； and her thumb groped for it； gratefully。
It was almost five o'clock when she reached Chicago。 She felt no
uncertainty or bewilderment。 She had been in Chicago three or four
times since her marriage。 She went to a downtown hotel。 It was too
late； she told herself； to look for a less expensive room that night。 When
she had tidied herself she went out。 The things she did were the childish；
aimless things that one does who finds herself in possession of sudden
liberty。 She walked up State Street； and stared in the windows； came
back； turned into Madison； passed a bright little shop in the window of
which taffy…white and gold was being wound endlessly and fascinatingly
about a double…jointed machine。 She went in and bought a sackful； and
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wandered on down the street； munching。
She had supper at one of those white…tiled sarcophagi that emblazon
Chicago's downtown side streets。 It had been her original intention to
dine in state in the rose…and…gold dining room of her hotel。 She had even
thought daringly of lobster。 But at the last moment she recoiled from the
idea of dining alone in that wilderness of tables so obviously meant for
two。
After her supper she went to a picture show。 She was amazed to find
there； instead of the accustomed orchestra； a pipe organ that panted and
throbbed and rumbled over lugubrious classics。 The picture was about a
faithless wife。 Terry left in the middle of it。
She awoke next morning at seven； as usual； started up wildly； looked
around； and dropped back。 Nothing to get up for。 The knowledge did
not fill her with a rush of relief。 She would have her breakfast in bed。
She telephoned for it； languidly。 But when it came she got up and ate it
from the table； after all。
That morning she found a fairly comfortable room； more within her
means； on the North Side in the boardinghouse district。 She unpacked
and hung up her clothes and drifted downtown again； idly。 It was noon
when she came to the corner of State and Madison Streets。 It was a
maelstrom that caught her up； and buffeted her about； and tossed her
helplessly this way and that。
The thousands jostled Terry； and knocked her hat awry； and dug her
with unheeding elbows； and stepped on her feet。
〃Say； look here！〃 she said once futilely。 They did not stop to listen。
State and Madison has no time for Terrys from Wetona。 It goes its way；
pell…mell。 If it saw Terry at all it saw her only as a prettyish person； in
the wrong kind of suit and h