"I say, do you mean you have no plans at all? Because we can put you up at our place if you care to—ten rooms down on Grove Street, a garden the size of a handkerchief, a fountain the size of a lemonade straw, four, free, feminine souls, and an empty attic. Yes?"
"It sounds like a Demonstration. Till I get my bearings, and thank you a thousand times."
"Come on. We'll walk, unless you're tired."
"Of sitting still for a week!"
They swung away, Jean shortening her step to the quick patter of Catherine's. As they went, Catherine told of her work and Jean listened enough to make out that Catherine had built herself a firm place in this city she had once hated: that any woman with brains and grit could force New York to recognize her and that managing concerts and readings paid "like the devil" if you got in right.
The patter of the crisp voice went on until, as they turned into Grove Street, Catherine broke off so sharply, that Jean feared her inattention had been discovered, and was just about to apologize when she caught a flush on Catherine's dry, brown cheeks, and followed her eyes to the heavy-set figure of a man, standing on the curb, throwing pennies into the slush, while a horde of street urchins shouted and fought for them. The man's clumsy body was convulsed with laughter, and he made false motions of throwing, with ungainly sweeps of his arms.
Catherine hurried forward and Jean felt that she wanted to reach the man and put an end to the spectacle. But as they came to the red brick house, with white window facings and green window boxes, the man turned and crossed to them.
"Jean, let me present Philip Fletcher, Nan Bonham's cousin and the nearest thing we possess to a male inmate. Philip, Mrs. Herrick of the Women's Civic Leagues."
Philip Fletcher ripped off his hat with absurd exaggeration and made a low bow. Now that she looked at him closely, Jean saw that the man's features were well cut, his eyes were clear, blue and kind, a trifle too far apart, and that his mouth was weak. Jean's first impression that he might not be quite normal mentally, vanished. He was evidently a simple soul, without dignity, but of a vanity that demanded attention even at his own expense.
He followed them in, and as Catherine led the way up to the attic, Jean heard him go on laughing down the hall and into a room at the end. She was sure that he had often thrown pennies before and would often do it again, and be overwhelmingly amused each time.