The argument was painfully reasonable; that inmate of New York who has but five cents has nothing. On the other hand, there was nothing whatever to be advanced in extenuation of her folly in thus inviting indigestion--a passion for pastry is its own punishment no less than any other infatuation to which mortal flesh is prone. Sally was morally certain she would suffer, and that severely, before nightfall. "Well, what of it?" she grumbled sullenly. "If I die for it, it's cheap at the price And, no matter what happens, it can't be any hotter afterward than it is now." Somehow soothed by this cynical reflection, she sat up, mopped her flushed forehead with a handkerchief of which she was not proud, and drank thirstily of her tumbler of ice-water.