Evening star., 1912-07-13
CHAPTER I.
Drifting.

From the harsh, hot glare Of midsum-
mer noon on Broadway, to the perennial
ly shadowed southerly sidewalk Of the
crosx-town extraordinarily the transi-
ton would have proved a grateful one.
Today. however, Cynthia Grayce was
! numb to the contrast: the heat was
everywhere so great that the difference
between phase and phase seemed neg
ligible.
Beneath the bread brim of her simply
trimmed straw her pretty young face
shone with pallor more than normal. q
trifie drawn and jaded. thought thin
but not yet thin enough to mar the
graciousness residing in those salient
curves of cheek and chin and brow. In
her brown eyes dwelt fathomless abetrac-
tion. wistful and wondering.
Strong upon her spirit. depressing it
like some grim, dumb menace, she felt
the consciousness Of the city. the swell
tering city of steel and stone. as selfish
and as heartless as the sun beating
ruthlessly down upon 1t from out sky
OF brass and fire. The dull hum Of the
life swarming round her seemed art1cu-
late with the message OF the city: You
are not of me and l will none of you.
But today she might no longer be in
sensible to the message. Dinned upon
her head by every wave OF sound that
swept the streets, she heard 1t in the
crash and clangor Of the trolley cars on
Broadway. in the roar and rumble of the
9th avenue elevated. In tho minor motif
beaten out by myriad blending foot
, steps. rhythmical with a cadence like
that Of the surf. Her eyes read 1t writ
ten In letters Of fire upon walls Of iron
and stone, and saw 1t lined In the sea of
faces flooding past her-set and impas-
sive masbs of Indifference. Of ignorance
| and self-seeking. Even the hot and dusty
vagrant gusts Of heavy, burning air.
dancing dervishlike through man-made
gullies and touching her face and hands
with scorching breath. bore the message
to her senses. She was not wanted. She
was unfit.
Today she surrendered. her strength
! gone out from her 50 utterly that she
could no longer either fight or hope. She
had come near to the end OF the chap
ter; everything had failed her; it was al
most over: after day or two would
come-what? The end? What else?
What manner Of end She neither knew
nor tried to name, not greatly caring-if
only II might be swift and sure ana
Absorbed, she held steadily on her way.
beneath the gaunt, drab skeleton OF the
elevated, past a corner saloon (heedless
Alive Of the indifference and the interest
in the block, she came to and entered
Susanne's.
There had been q time when the shah
by, four-story brick building. with the
english basement and brownstone stoop.
ad posed as the home OF wealth and
respectability. Now 1t was-with little
oss Of good repute-simply Suzanne's
There was another name for 1t. name
bitten deep into the doorplate. whose
GRASS was peering guiltily through its
vanishing coat Of silver; but few. II any,
Of the patrons knew the place as any
thing but Suzanne's. . middle-ciass
French restaurant and boarding house.
where one might lunch sufficiently for 10
cents and dine with surprising relish and
satisfaction for the equally modest sum
of fifty-five.
To lunch at Suzanne's had become .
settled habit with Cynthia Rarely did
she miss day. Lunch there was as
much a matter OF her diurnal routine IS
was the morning egg and coffee, cooked
over the single gas jet in her hall bed
room in another quarter of the city, or
her supper OF q handful Of crackers and
bowl Of milk. That lunch was the
/ mainstay OF her daily ufe her dinner.