Synopsis

One of the stewards of the big Atlantic liner pushed his way among the engers to a young lady who was leaning alone against the taffrail. "Mrs. Vance Weston?" The lady had been lost in the effort to absorb, with drawn-up unseeing eyes, a final pyramidal vision of the New York she was leaving--a place already so unreal to her that her short-sighted gaze was unable to even vaguely its towering signals of farewell. She turned back. "Mrs. Vance Weston?" "No--" she began; then, correcting herself with a half-embarrassed smile: "Yes."