"Sure; didn't you know? There she goes now to the car again." Glover
stepped to the east window. A young lady was gathering up her gown to
mount the car-step and a porter was assisting her. The daintiness of her
manner was a nightmare of conviction. Glover turned from the window and
began tearing up papers on his table. He tore up all the worthless
papers in sight and for months afterward missed valuable ones. When he
had filled the waste-basket he rammed blue-prints down into it with his
foot until he succeeded in smashing it. Then he sat down and held his
head between his hands.
She was entitled to an apology, or an attempt at one at least, and though
he would rather have faced a Sweetgrass blizzard than an interview he set
his lips and with bitterness in his heart made his preparations. The
incident only renewed his confidence in his incredible stupidity, but
what he felt was that a girl with such eyes as hers could never be
brought to believe it genuine.
An hour afterward he knocked at the door of the long olive car that stood
east of the station. The hand-rails were very bright and the large plate
windows shone spotless, but the brown shades inside were drawn. Glover
touched the call-button and to the uniformed colored man who answered he
gave his card asking for Miss Brock.
An instant during which he had once waited for a dynamite blast when
unable to get safely away, came back to him. Standing on the handsome
platform he remembered wondering at that time whether he should land in
one place or in several places. Now, he wished himself away from that
door even if he had to crouch again on the ledge which he had found in a
deadly moment he could not escape from. On the previous occasion the
fuse had mercifully failed to burn. This time when he collected his
thoughts the colored man was smilingly telling him for the second time
that Miss Brock was not in.