He had rested a hand on the plum upholstery beside her. In some way it
touched hers; clasped it; gripped it feverishly.
The colour came rushing to his face. And to hers.
He saw, through a blinding mist, that there were tears in her eyes.
'Ci--Cicely, you don't, you can't mean--that you--too....'
'Please, Henry! Not here! Not now!'
They glanced up the street; and down.
'Come this afternoon,' she breathed.
'They'll be there.'
'Come early. Two o'clock. We'll take a walk.'
'Oh--Cicely!'
'Henry!'
Their hands were locked together until Madame came out.
The carriage rolled away.
Henry--it seemed to himself--reeled dizzily along Simpson Street to the
stairway that you climbed to get to the _Gleaner_ office.
And all along this street of his struggles, his failures, his one or two
successes, his dreams, the dingy, two-story buildings laughed and danced
and cheered about him, with him, for him--Hemple's meat-market, Berger's
grocery, Swanson's, Donovan's, Schultz and Schwartz's barber shop,
Stanley's, the Sunbury National Bank, the postoffice--all reeled
jubilantly with him in the ecstasy of young love!