It was eight o'clock when she let herself into her
apartment. She had given the maid a whole holiday. When
Fanny had turned on the light in her little hallway she
stood there a moment, against the door, her hand spread flat
against the panel. It was almost as though she patted it,
lovingly, gratefully. Then she went on into the living
room, and stood looking at its rosy lamplight. Then, still
as though seeing it all for the first time, into her own
quiet, cleanly bedroom, with its cream enamel, and the
chaise longue that she had had cushioned in rose because it
contrasted so becomingly with her black hair. And there, on
her dressing table, propped up against the brushes and
bottles, was the yellow oblong of a telegram. From Theodore
of course. She opened it with a rush of happiness. It was
like a loving hand held out to her in need. It was a day
letter.
