She had lunch alone in a little tea room, and all the while she thought
of Randall, the arrogant, who had been humiliated and humbled. Playing
poker and drinking! They were things utterly outside her experience, and
the thought of them filled her with dismay and alarm.
“He’s so reckless,” she thought. “He told me he was all alone in New
York. There’s no one to talk to him.”
That public reprimand had come to him just after she had told him that
she was leaving. Perhaps that ring had been in his pocket at the
time--the ring that he must have bought with such a high heart.
Through the tea room window she could look out on the crowded street.
That was the world out there--the world he lived in, hurried, careless,
and jostling; and he was pushing his way through it, hurried himself and
careless and solitary.
“I can’t let him go like this, without a word,” she thought. “Perhaps if
I just spoke to him--nicely, it might help.”
It was hard for her to do that, for it was he who should have come to
her, should have asked her not to go away, should have tried to set
himself right with her.
“Now he’ll think I didn’t really mind his behaving that way,” she
thought. “He’ll be hard to manage, if I encourage him.”
But she had to do it. Reluctantly, with a heavy heart, she telephoned to
the address he had given her.
“Randall’s not in,” said a cheerful masculine voice. “I expect him any
minute. Can I take a message?”
She hesitated.
“Yes, please,” she said at last. “If you’ll tell him that Miss Graham is
leaving for Hartford on the five o’clock train, and that she’d like to
see him at the Grand Central for a moment before she goes.”
“Miss Graham--leaving on the five o’clock train for Hartford--wants to
see him at the Grand Central. Right! I’ve got it all written down.”
That was a later train than she had meant to take, and there was a long
time to be filled. She went into the book department of a big store and
picked out something to read--a serious book, the sort she had been
brought up to appreciate. Then she went to a tea room and had a plate of
ice cream.
At half past four she reached the station, and stood near the gates of
the train, waiting--such a neat, composed, dignified young creature,
with her book under her arm. At heart she was nervous, but she meant to
try. She was going to speak to Randall gravely and earnestly. She would
not encourage him too much, but she would offer him her friendship, if
he would be worthy of it. It was a difficult thing for her to do, this
cherished only daughter, so sheltered, so gently bred, so quietly proud
in her own honorable and blameless life. She had taken a step down in
doing this.
Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady and clear, searching the
crowd for him. It was right to try and help him.
He was late in coming. Only fifteen minutes now--only ten minutes!
On impulse she hurried to a telephone.
“He hasn’t got the message,” she thought. “I’ll just say good-by. I’ll
tell him that perhaps I’ll see him again.”
The same masculine voice answered.
“I did give him the message,” it protested; “but you see, he’s got a
little party on here. He must have lost track of the time. I’ll call
him.”
“No!” she cried. “Thank you. Good-by!”
He had got her message and he had not troubled to come. She had to run
now to catch the train. He hadn’t come. He didn’t care.
She stopped short as she reached the gates.
“All abo-o-ard!” cried the conductor.
But she did not go. She turned away from the train with a strange blank
look on her face.
“I can’t!” she thought. “I love him. I can’t go like this!”
She was surprised to find that it had grown dark when she reached the
street. A cold wind blew, and the myriad flashing lights of Forty-Second
Street, the noise, the crowds, confused her. Her composure and her
dignified self-reliance were gone; she felt desolate and abandoned.
“What’s the matter with me?” she thought with a sob. “I ought to be
ashamed of myself. He got my message--and he didn’t come!”
She tried to stop a taxi, but they all went past.
“But he _wanted_ to come!” she cried in her heart. “I know he wanted to
come, only he’s too proud. I hurt him too much.”
He would not come to her, so she was going to him. Was it possible?
“I don’t care!” she said to herself. “I won’t go away like this!”
At last she stopped a cab.
“If he sees me--” she thought.
For somehow she, who knew so little of love and life, knew that if he
saw her his stubborn pride would be melted. She must do it, at any cost
to her own pride.
Terribly pale, she entered the hall of the apartment house where he
lived. The hall boy came forward.
“Mr. Randall? I’ll telephone up.”
“N-no, thank you,” she said. “I’ll just go up.”
“It’s the rule--” the boy began; but after a glance at her pale, set
face he resigned himself with a sigh, and took her up in the elevator.
He watched her going along the hall, so slender and straight, still with
the serious book under her arm.
She rang the bell, and waited. She rang again, and the door was flung
open with a crash by a cheerful, fair-haired young fellow.
“I want to see Mr. Randall,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment.
“Ran!” he called. “Come here! Some one to see you!”