“All ready for this afternoon?” I asked him.
His lips went tight together, and quivered in and out over his small
round beard as he tried to face me. And then he looked down away, and
began digging another hole in the gravel walk with the broad toe of his
congress boot. He shot a glance at me, in a moment, and gazed off at the
falling leaves.
“Aren’t you interested in Hurrell Oaks?” I persisted.
“I’m interested in everything Marian Haviland likes,” he declared,
boldly, focusing his eyes full upon mine. “But—but the apartment’s
small, and—and I reckon there wasn’t room.”
_Room?_ Was any place too _small_ for him? It made my blood—even at that
age—boil.
“She’s had enough to do to keep half a dozen busy,” I said, tactlessly.
“_Has_ she?” he echoed in hope. “How—how’s she got on?”
“She’s been wonderful,” I said, feeling kindlier toward her as I spoke.
“She’s made that apartment regal.”
“I’m glad, I’m glad! I knew she had it in her. Did the new sofa come?”
“Yes. Everything’s come. And you’d better come yourself at five o’clock.
I know she’s just forgotten—perhaps your invitation got lost like Mrs.
Purcell’s. She only got hers an hour ago, I heard.”
“Really, now! Well, I’ll just go home and see. I need a little nap, I
guess. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Good-by.”
And he held out his hand, and nodded to me several times, and gave me a
sad, cheery, uncertain smile.
It was too bad. I was sure Miss Haviland _had_ forgotten him. I didn’t
think—and I don’t think now—that she wilfully omitted to send him an
invitation. It was only that her cup was too full to remember his small,
meek existence. I wondered if I dared remind her. I was pretty busy all
day, however. And I had to get dressed and out by four, as I hadn’t
posted my daily theme yet, and the time would be up at half-past. But I
thought, even so late as then, that I’d better go by way of the New
Gainsborough, and if things seemed propitious, drop a hint to her, for I
felt free to say almost anything after my experience of the other
evening.
Things weren’t propitious, though, I can tell you.
I was still some distance from the building—it was about fifteen
minutes’ walk, I should say—when I heard somebody calling to me in a
distressed voice. I looked ’round behind me, and to the right and left;
and when finally I walked ahead I saw Miss Haviland fly out through the
swinging door of the New Gainsborough and stand there at the top of the
high granite stoop, beckoning frantically. She had on a mauve-colored
kimono, which she was holding together rather desperately in front, and
her hair was uncaught behind and streaming in the wind.
“Edith! Edith!” she called out. “Quick!”
She had never called me by my first name before. What could it be?—at
this late hour, too? She waited a second to be sure I was coming, then
dodged back under cover.