She did not precisely move toward him, but she did so contrive the
pause that it was up to him, if he weren't to be boorish, to stop for a
moment and speak with her.
She threw a disarming candor into her first question. "Is there any
particular reason," said she, "why we are no longer friends?"
"Friends?"
"Yes. You've been frowning at me for about three weeks and I haven't
the least idea how I've offended you."
He did not answer immediately and his expression hardened.
"There, you're doing it now," said she with apparent perplexity. "Why?"
"You know," he spoke doggedly.
"No, I don't."
"Yes you do, too," he answered curtly and roughly. "You do."
"Just as you please." She turned from him, apparently offended by his
tone, slightly nodded and walked slowly away. She was of medium
height, no more than that, and slender. A brute of a man bumped her
with his shoulder as he passed her.
Stevens waited for the brute of a man, dug his elbow into his ribs and
overtook her at the Madison Street corner.
"Miss--Mrs. Connor, I didn't mean to be rude."
"You were a little, you know."
"Will you excuse me?"
"Why, of course."
He didn't quite know what to do next, so he awkwardly extended his
hand. She took it with a man-to-man shake of wiping out the score,
which completely demolished his cynical attitude in reference to
platonic friendship.
"Where were you bound for?" he asked.
"Nowhere, just strolling. Over to the lake front for a breath of air."
"May I walk along?"
"Surely."
On their way back they reflected that they had been without lunch, so
they stopped at a drug store for a malted milk with egg, chocolate
flavor, nutmeg on top.
They touched their glasses together.
"It's very nourishing," said he with wonderment.
"Very," she replied, delightedly; "very."
They returned to their work in that state of high elation induced by
interviews such as theirs, wherein the spoken words mean twenty times
what they say--and more.