AT the window of her apartment in Hotel Bellingham, Mrs. Roberts stands looking out into the early nightfall. A heavy snow is driving without, and from time to time the rush of the wind and the sweep of the flakes against the panes are heard. At the sound of hurried steps in the anteroom, Mrs. Roberts turns from the window, and runs to the _portière_, through which she puts her head. MRS. ROBERTS: ‘Is that you, Edward? So dark here! We ought really to keep the gas turned up all the time.’…
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