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mention that there was no way she could afford an expensive court case. She stood up from the hard wooden chair he’d offered her when she’d come in. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Steadman. I trust this mistake will not happen again.”
    “You be sure and come to me if there’s ever another problem. I had a lot of respect for that aunt of yours.” He transferred his smoldering cigar from his right hand to his left and took her by the elbow. “I’ll show you out.”
    To Edith’s burning shame, her stomach growled loudly as they walked into the lobby. Immediately, she began to talk, to cover up any further embarrassing noises. “Your life must be very interesting, Mr. Steadman. I know all my clients look up to the Bulletin and feel it’s an important part of their lives. Tell me, how do you . . .”
    Despite her efforts, the rumbling that echoed through the lobby had the effect of thunder. She felt as though every head in the place must be turning in her direction.
    “Look at the time,” Mr. Steadman said. “Can’t I make it up to you, Miss Parker, by taking you to lunch? There’s a nice little place around the corner.”
    The thought of food was enough to make Edith’s head swim. But to enter a public restaurant with a man she hardly knew smacked of that dishonorable life her aunt had always warned her against. One false step, apparently, was all it took.
    “You’re very good, Mr. Steadman. But I have an appointment and am already late. Good day.”
    The acoustics in the lobby of the Bulletin’s office must have been especially good, for even though she was some distance away, she clearly heard the editor murmur, “Poor little lady.” Her cheeks were crimson for half her walk home. Had Mr. Steadman seen through her pretense?
    Mr. Maginn’s absence from his usual perch by the stairs seemed to indicate that he was supervising his seldom-seen sister in the cooking of the noon meal. Not having paid her rent, Edith was naturally cut off from dining at the communal table. Though the food was mostly thin soups and watery porridge, the dirty, sticky table seemed like an oasis of fine cuisine, forever beyond her reach.
    The stairs were impossibly steep. She rested at the third landing, her gloved hand against the wall. Her knees felt weak, and her head went round and round like a calliope. She could almost hear the cheerful, vulgar organ music. Knowing she mustn’t collapse here, she staggered up the last two flights of stairs.
    Though she longed just to lie down for a little while, Edith knew she must not take the risk of falling asleep and missing the four o’clock mail. All her hopes were pinned to that delivery. She owed three dollars for rent, but even a single new client would mean she could eat, and eat well.
    The dry soda crackers that she shared with Orpheus—his cage open since Mrs. Webb never missed a meal—were a poor substitute for a luncheon. Eating them with pride made them no more palatable.
    She wondered what Mr. Dane would be eating. The St. Simeon Hotel was known for the excellence of its table. Or perhaps he was having a business meeting at one of the fine restaurants by the river. Edith suppressed a groan and tried to think of something unconnected with food. But as all roads lead to Rome, all subjects, sooner or later, led her to meals.
    After the three crackers, all she dared take from her store, Edith took up some of the letters she had in her files. Men and women wrote to the service in about equal numbers. As things had turned out, Miss Fiske had been the last unmatched client in the files. Otherwise, Mr. Hansen would have had to wait for some lonely girl to write in before finding his mate.
    The letters were all the same. The circumstances might vary widely, from orphans to the overlooked child in a large family, from independent persons to those who were forced to rely on the largess of some relative, from the frantically youthful to the ripeness of maturity—which did not