"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.




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