"I--don"t know."
"I want to see you again--soon. What"s your address?"
"I haven"t any. I"ve got to look for a place to live."
"Well, you can give me the place you did live. I"ll write you there, Lorna. You didn"t ask me my name when I asked you yours.
You"ve hardly said anything. Are you always quiet like this?"
"No--not always. At Least, I haven"t been."
"No. You weren"t, part of the time this afternoon--at the restaurant. Tell me, what are you thinking about all the time?
You"re very secretive. Why don"t you tell me? Don"t you know I like you?"
"I don"t know," said the girl in a slow dazed way. "I--don"t--know."
"I wouldn"t take your time for nothing," he went on, after a pause. "My father doesn"t give me much money, but I think I"ll have some more day after tomorrow. Can I see you then?"
"I don"t know."
He laughed. "You said that before. Day after tomorrow afternoon--in the same place. No matter if it"s raining. I"ll be there first--at three. Will you come?"
"If I can."
She made a movement to go. But still he detained her. He colored high again, in the struggle between the impulses of his generous youth and the fear of being absurd with a girl he had picked up in the street. He looked at her searchingly, wistfully. "I know it"s your life, but--I hate to think of it," he went on. "You"re far too nice. I don"t see how you happened to be in--in this line. Still, what else is there for a girl, when she"s up against it? I"ve often thought of those things--and I don"t feel about them as most people do. . . . I"m curious about you.
You"ll pardon me, won"t you? I"m afraid I"ll fall in love with you, if I see you often. You won"t fail to come day after tomorrow?"
"If I can."
"Don"t you want to see me again?"
She did not speak or lift her eyes.
"You like me, don"t you?"
Still no answer.
"You don"t want to be questioned?"
"No," said the girl.
"Where are you going now?"
"To the hospital."
"May I walk up there with you? I live in Clifton. I can go home that way."
"I"d rather you didn"t."
"Then--good-by--till day after tomorrow at three." He put out his hand; he had to reach for hers and take it. "You"re not--not angry with me?"
"No."
His eyes lingered tenderly upon her. "You are _so_ sweet! You don"t know how I want to kiss you. Are you sorry to go--sorry to leave me--just a little?. . . I forgot. You don"t like to be questioned. Well, good-by, dear."
"Good-by," she said; and still without lifting her gaze from the ground she turned away, walked slowly westward.
She had not reached the next street to the north when she suddenly felt that if she did not sit she would drop. She lifted her eyes for an instant to glance furtively round. She saw a house with stone steps leading up to the front doors; there was a "for rent" sign in one of the close-shuttered parlor windows.
She seated herself, supported the upper part of her weary body by resting her elbows on her knees. Her bundle had rolled to the sidewalk at her feet. A pa.s.sing man picked it up, handed it to her, with a polite bow. She looked at him vaguely, took the bundle as if she were not sure it was hers.
"Heat been too much for you, miss?" asked the man.
She shook her head. He lingered, talking volubly--about the weather--then about how cool it was on the hilltops. "We might go up to the Bellevue," he finally suggested, "if you"ve nothing better to do."
"No, thank you," she said.
"I"ll go anywhere you like. I"ve got a little money that I don"t care to keep."
She shook her head.
"I don"t mean anything bad," he hastened to suggest--because that would bring up the subject in discussable form.
"I can"t go with you," said the girl drearily. "Don"t bother me, please."
"Oh--excuse me." And the man went on.
Susan turned the bundle over in her lap, thrust her fingers slowly and deliberately into the fold of the soiled blouse which was on the outside. She drew out the money. A ten and two fives.
Enough to keep his room at the hospital for two weeks. No, for she must live, herself. Enough to give him a room one week longer and to enable her to live two weeks at least. . . . And day after tomorrow--more. Perhaps, soon--enough to see him through the typhoid. She put the money in her bosom, rose and went on toward the hospital. She no longer felt weary, and the sensation of a wound that might ache if she were not so numb pa.s.sed away.
A clerk she had not seen before was at the barrier desk. "I came to ask how Mr. Burlingham is," said she.
The clerk yawned, drew a large book toward him.
"Burlingham--B--Bu--Bur----" he said half to himself, turning over the leaves. "Yes--here he is." He looked at her. "You his daughter?"
"No, I"m a friend."
"Oh--then--he died at five o"clock--an hour ago."
He looked up--saw her eyes--only her eyes. They were a deep violet now, large, shining with tragic softness--like the eyes of an angel that has lost its birthright through no fault of its own. He turned hastily away, awed, terrified, ashamed of himself.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE next thing she knew, she felt herself seized strongly by the arm. She gazed round in a dazed way. She was in the street--how she got there she had no idea. The grip on her arm--it was the young doctor, Hamilton. "I called you twice," explained he, "but you didn"t hear."
"He is dead," said she.