She took a quick step toward the bed,
stopped, turned abruptly, and walked toward the mirror.
"Emma McChesney," she said aloud to the woman in the glass, "buck up,
old girl! Bad luck comes in bunches of threes. It's like breaking the
first cup in a new Haviland set. You can always count on smashing two
more. This is your third. So pick up the pieces and throw 'em in the
ash-can."
Then she fastened her collar, buttoned her shoe, pulled down her
shirtwaist all around, smeared her face with cold cream, wiped it with
a towel, smoothed her hair, donned her hat. The next instant the
little room was dark, and Emma McChesney was marching down the long,
red-carpeted hallway to the elevator, her head high, her face set.
Down-stairs in the lobby--"How about my trunks?" she inquired of a
porter.
That blue-shirted individual rubbed a hard brown hand over his cheek
worriedly.
"They ain't come."
"Ain't come!"--surprise disregarded grammar.
Nope. No signs of 'em. I'll tell you what: I think prob'ly they was
overlooked in the rush, the train being late from Dayton when you
started.
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