Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the
chemist came in.
"I think, if I were you, I should take her home now," he
remarked. "She'll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake
up much stronger. I have made up a prescription here in case of
exhaustion."
Tavernake stared at the man. Take her home! His sense of humor
was faint enough but he found himself trying to imagine the faces
of Mrs. Lawrence or Mrs. Fitzgerald if he should return with her
to the boardinghouse at such an hour.
"I suppose you know where she lives?" the chemist inquired
curiously.
"Of course," Tavernake assented. "You are quite right. I dare
say she is strong enough now to walk as far as the pavement."
He paid the bill for the medicines, and they lifted her from the
couch. Between them she walked slowly into the outer shop. Then
she began to drag on their arms and she looked up at the chemist
a little piteously.
"May I sit down for a moment?" she begged. "I feel faint."
They placed her in one of the cane chairs facing the door. The
chemist mixed her some sal volatile.
"I am sorry," she murmured, "so sorry. In a few minutes--I shall
be better."
Outside, the throng of pedestrians had grown less, but from the
great restaurant opposite a constant stream of motor-cars and
carriages was slowly bringing away the supper guests. Tavernake
stood at the door, watching them idly. The traffic was
momentarily blocked and almost opposite to him a motor-car, the
simple magnificence of which filled him with wonder, had come to
a standstill.
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