Edward was now the leader of the enterprise; he did not know where they
were going, but he led the way, down the alley and out into a street
which was new to him. It was one of those streets that may so often be
found lurking near neat little suburban railway stations--a mean street,
dark and deserted. A light burned dimly in a cutthroat barber’s, another
light in a shoemaker’s, revealing the shoemaker and his family of pale
infants. There was a--what was that?
“The Palace Restaurant--never closed,” a sign said.
They hurried into the Palace Restaurant just as the rain began in
earnest.
“You can wait here till it’s over,” said Edward.
He purposely refrained from saying “we,” but he knew that he could not
desert the silly, helpless creature. They sat down at a little table
near the window, and, when the proprietor came up to them, Edward
ordered ham and eggs and coffee.
“I couldn’t eat anything in this horrible place!” whispered his
companion.
At first Edward was inclined to agree with her. It was not an appetizing
place. The tablecloth was stained, and there was a stale and unpleasant
aroma in the air. A glass case displayed a lemon meringue pie and a
raisin cake which did not appeal to him.
When the food came, however, he ate it--to his regret, for, after having
eaten, his desire for a smoke increased tenfold. He could think of
little else. Stern and silent, he sat there thinking of the cigars in
the pocket of his other coat, of the box of cigars in his office. He
knew this to be a weakness, and he was struggling against it; but the
struggle was difficult, and he was in no mood for his companion’s words.
“You’re unhappy--like me,” she said softly.
“No,” said Edward. “No--it’s entirely different.”
“Oh, I understand!” she said.
She went on, about life, and how hard it is when you really feel things,
and how alone you are, even in the midst of crowds. He tried not to
listen, but he had to hear some of it, and it infuriated him.
“Very likely,” he said; “but I’d like to know your plans. What do you
want me to do? Get you a cab, or what?”
She shrank back.
“Oh!” she said. “I see! You mean--I understand! You want to go. Leave
me, then! Go! Why should you care what happens to me?”
“It’s after eleven,” was all that Edward answered.
There was a silence.
“Very well!” she said coldly. “I shall take the next train into the
city.”
There was another silence. The proprietor had retired, and they had the
Palace Restaurant entirely to themselves. The rain was dashing against
the windows. The street light outside showed only darkness.
What, Edward wondered, was Mildred doing now? She was capable of
anything--of telephoning to the Baxters, to the police. Perhaps she had
gone away herself. Perhaps she was wandering about in this storm,
searching for her husband. It was a wild and fantastic notion, but that
was the sort of thing women did. Look at this one! He did look at her,
and she looked at him, with cold scorn.
“Will you be kind enough--” she began.
Just then the door opened and two men came in. They were the editor and
the subeditor of the local paper, both of whom Edward knew.
“Hello, Cane!” said the editor. “Just put the paper to bed. What are you
doing here?”
“Nothing much,” Edward replied as casually as possible.
The editor turned to the fair unknown.
“How do you like our little town, Mrs. Cane?” he asked. “Once you get to
know--”
“I am not Mrs. Cane,” she interrupted frigidly.
“Oh! I--er--yes,” said the editor.
He waited a moment, but no one said anything. Then he and his colleague
sat down at a table as far away as they could get.
“Why didn’t you keep still?” said Edward in a low, fierce voice. “He’s
editor of the newspaper here.”
“Did you imagine I was that sort of woman?” she returned. “Did you think
I would pretend to be the wife of a perfect stranger?”
“No,” said Edward; “but you didn’t need to say anything. He’ll talk--”
“Do you imagine I care?” said she.
Of course she didn’t. Women care only for themselves. Edward could not
trust himself to speak, but he thought. He thought.
“I’ll find out who she is,” he said to himself, “so that I can send her
back for the money for her ham and eggs.”
A dismal bellow pierced the night.
“The eleven forty pulling out,” observed the editor to his companion.
Edward heard this.
“When’s the next train into the city?” he asked, across the room.
“Five twenty to-morrow morning.”
“Now you see what you’ve done!” said the fair unknown to Edward.
“What I’ve done?” said he, amazed and indignant; but she was far more
indignant than he.
“Now what am I going to do?” she demanded. “The last train’s gone. I
can’t go into the city, and there’s nowhere here for me to stay.”
“Are you blaming me for--”
“Yes,” said she. “You’re a man. You ought to have--”
“Just what ought I have done?” Edward inquired with biting irony.
“I don’t care!” said she. “Very well! I’m going to stay here all night.”
“You can’t.”
“I’m going to!” said she.
“And I thought Mildred was unreasonable!” Edward reflected.
The image of Mildred rose before him, remarkably vivid. With great
justice and moderation he compared her with this unknown individual. All
women were not alike. Mildred was different. There was something about
her--Sometimes, of course, she was simply outrageous, but, even at
that--That time when he had the flu--or when anything went wrong in the
office--
“And she’s very young,” thought the just man. “She’s nothing but a kid.
Perhaps I should have made allowances.”
“Won’t you smoke?” said a voice.
Glancing up, he saw the fair unknown proffering a silver cigarette case.
Edward did not smoke cigarettes, and he had pretty severe theories about
people who did so, but this time he was weak. He took one and lighted
it. It was a horrible perfumed thing, but it helped him. The fact that
he had broken one of his rules helped him, too. He felt more tolerant.
“Don’t you--er--smoke?” he asked his companion.
He thought she was just the sort of person who would; but she shook her
head.
“Arthur doesn’t like me to,” she said. Her voice had changed, and her
face, too. She was downcast and pale. “I made him get me that case,” she
went on. “He hated to, but I made him.”
Tears had come into her eyes again, but this time Edward felt rather
sorry for her.
“Don’t cry!” he said kindly--the more so as the two editors had just
gone out, in discreet silence.
“I can’t help it!” said she. “My whole life is ruined. You don’t
know--oh, you don’t know what a beast I’ve been! And now--now I’ve lost
Arthur!”
“Who is Arthur?” Edward asked sympathetically.
“My husband,” said she. The tears were raining down her cheeks. “My
dear, kind, wonderful, darling husband! I wanted to punish him, and
frighten him, and I ran away. We had a quarrel. My life is ruined, and
all because of a penny!”
“A penny?”
“Yes. Arthur said the two sides were called heads and tails, and I said
they were called odds and evens. I know he was wrong, but why didn’t I
give in? Oh, why didn’t I give in? Both our lives ruined! He’s
frightfully jealous. Hell never forgive this--and for a trifle like
that!”
“I--” said Edward, and stopped. His face, too, had grown pale. “Ours was
about a cat--Mildred’s cat,” he went on. “It got up a tree, and she
wanted me to go next door and get a ladder and get it down. I told her
it could get down by itself when it was ready. She--”
“How cruel of you!” interrupted his companion.
“It was not cruel,” asserted Edward.
“It was! If you loved Mildred, you’d get dozens of ladders for her.”
“If she loved me, she wouldn’t ask me to make such a monkey of myself,”
retorted Edward. “I did it once, and the people next door laughed at me.
I heard them.”
“You shouldn’t care,” said the fair unknown severely. “You were entirely
in the wrong.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Edward, “you were entirely in the wrong
yourself, about that penny.”
“What?” said she.
She rose and faced him with flashing eyes. Edward rose, too. His eyes
did not flash, but they were steely. They regarded each other steadily,
with magnificent pride.
Suddenly she began to laugh.
“I am glad,” said Edward, “that you find this amusing.”
“Oh, dear!” she said, sinking back into her chair. “Aren’t we
pig-headed, both of us?”
“Kindly don’t--” Edward began, but she did not heed him.
“Oh! A penny--and a cat!”
“Well,” said Edward, “perhaps--”
“Come on!” said she, rising again. “Let’s go back and start all over
again!”
“I--” Edward began.
“Oh, do come on!” she cried impatiently. “It was Arthur I saw outside
the American House--when I pulled you into the jeweler’s, you know. Oh,
do hurry! He’s traced me that far--perhaps we’ll find him still there!”
“We?”
“Of course!” she said. “You’ve got to explain everything to Arthur. Come
on!”
“But your hat!” Edward reminded her, as a last desperate plea.
“My hat!” she replied with supreme scorn.
So they went out of the Palace Restaurant into the driving rain.