The troupe in its wandering arrived at Bolton Junction early on a

Saturday afternoon, and Winston, lingering a moment in the hotel

office, overheard Miss Norvell ask the manager if they would probably

spend Sunday there; and later question the hotel clerk regarding any

Episcopalian services in the town. Their rather late arrival, however,

kept him so exceedingly busy with stage preparation for the evening's

performance that this conversation scarcely recurred to mind until his

night's labor had been completed. Then, in the silence of his room, he

resolved upon an immediate change in conditions, or else the deliberate

giving up of further experiment altogether. He was long since tired

enough of it, yet a strange, almost unaccountable attraction for this

young woman continued binding him to disagreeable servitude.

He came down stairs the following morning, his plans completely

determined upon. He was carefully dressed in the neat business suit

which had been packed away ever since his first reckless plunge into

theatrical life, and thus attired he felt more like his old self than

at any moment since his surrender to the dictation of Albrecht. In

some degree self-confidence, audacity, hope, came promptly trooping

back with the mere donning of clean linen and semi-fashionable attire,

so that Winston "utility" became Winston gentleman, in the twinkling of

an eye. The other members of the troupe slept late, leaving him to

breakfast alone after vainly loitering about the office in the hope

that Miss Norvell might by some chance appear and keep him company. It

was almost mortifying to behold that young woman enter the deserted

dining-room soon after he had returned to the lonely office, but she

gave no sign of recognition in passing, and his returned audacity

scarcely proved sufficient to permit his encroachment upon her privacy.

He could only linger a moment at the desk in an effort to catch a

better view of her through the partially open door.

Nervously gripping a freshly lighted cigar, Winston finally strolled

forth upon the wide porch to await, with all possible patience, the

opportunity he felt assured was fast approaching. It was a bright

spring morning, sufficiently warm to be comfortable without in the

sunshine, although the mountains overshadowing the town were yet white

with snow. The one long, straggling business street appeared

sufficiently lonely, being almost deserted, the shops closed. The

notable contrast between its present rather dreary desolation and the

wild revelry of the previous night seemed really painful, while the

solemn prevailing stillness served to weaken Winston's bold resolutions

and brought him a strange timidity. He slowly strolled a block or

more, peering in at the shop windows, yet never venturing beyond easy

view of the hotel steps. Then he sauntered as deliberately back again.

Lane and Mooney were now stationed upon the porch, tipping far back in

their chairs, their feet deposited on the convenient railing, smoking

and conversing noisily with a group of travelling men. Winston, to his

disgust, caught little scraps of the coarse stories exchanged,

constantly greeted by roars of laughter, but drew as far away from

their immediate vicinity as possible, leaning idly against the rail.

Far down the street, from some unseen steeple, a church bell rang

solemnly. Listening, he wondered if she would come alone, and a dread

lest she might not set his heart throbbing.




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