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The room right next to his.
    “I am, indeed, Miss Love. You must be Miss Jayne, the Tiffany Girl.”
    The entire house was much atwitter about this Tiffany Girl who was coming to board with them. He’d kept his thoughts to himself, though. He wasn’t sure Tiffany’s women could manage the kind of work they’d been hired to do, but far worse was the fact that they’d undermined the hundred-plus men who were striking for reasonable hours and better wages.
    “Yes, I’m Miss Jayne, but if we’re to be roommates, I insist you call me Flossie.”
    Roommates? he thought. Miss Love was taking on a roommate?
    “Then you must call me Annie Belle.”
    “Annabel Love?”
    “Annie Belle Love. I was named after my grandmothers, Annie and Belle.”
    “Oh, isn’t that lovely? My name is short for Florence, but no one ever calls me that, thank goodness.” She paused. “Oh, dear. I hope you don’t have any loved ones named Florence. I meant no offense, of course. Where should Mr. Klausmeyer set my things?”
    A solid thunk indicated the placement of her trunk before any response was given.
    “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.”
    Klausmeyer hauled in three more trunks—how many clothes could one woman have, for crying out loud? And how would that tiny room have space for them?
    He didn’t have long to wait for his answer, for unpacking commenced, and as soon as one trunk emptied, Klausmeyer carried it back out. Just when Reeve expected things to settle, the man commenced to lug in a bookshelf, a rocking chair, a lamp, an artist’s easel, a small table, several paintings, a brass headboard, and three rugs.
    Death and the deuce, there was no chance of Klausmeyer completing his shoveling now. He’d done more work in the last two hours than he had in the last two years. Worst of all, Miss Love’s door remained open through it all.
    “What beautiful clothes.” The awe in Miss Love’s voice bordered on covetousness. “I’ve never seen such fine garments up close.”
    “My mother’s a seamstress for the wealthy set. She tries out her ideas on my wardrobe.”
    “Oh, it must be wonderful to have so many gowns.”
    “You and I appear to be close to the same size. Is there one in particular you like? Why don’t you try some on, then wear your favorite to dinner tonight? What do you say about that?”
    “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t.” Miss Love’s voice, however, said she’d be more than willing.
    “I insist.” Their door clicked shut.
    He glanced at the clock sitting on the corner of his desk. He’d mentioned the Tiffany Girl to his editor at the New York World . It had spurred a long discussion between them that culminated in an assignment where Reeve was to write a series of exposés on this breed of New Women who were trying to infiltrate what had been—and what should certainly remain—man’s rightful and exclusive dominions.
    His first piece was to be sent out in two hours. Yet he’d only managed three paragraphs since Miss Jayne’s arrival. He closed his door, too, even though it would disrupt the flow of air between the hall and his cracked window. Still, the women’s voices and exclamations came through the thin walls as easily as if they stood in his very room.
    “Have you met Mr. Tiffany?” Miss Love’s voice flowed like old rye whiskey, easily discernible from Miss Jayne’s, whose was of a more bubbly, champagne variety.
    “He wasn’t at all what I’d pictured him to be,” Miss Jayne said. “There’s nary a gray hair on his head, yet I just found out his forty-fifth birthday approaches. And such a lovely man. I can’t comprehend how all those lead-glass workers walked out on him at such a critical time.”
    Miss Love’sresponse was muffled beneath layers of clothing being whisked on and off. Perhaps he should interview one of the glassworkers. There were less than a hundred and fifty men in the entire city who knew how to do the work Tiffany required. With the