Suddenly Mr. Opp leaned forward and viewed her slipper with interest. He had recognized the make! It was xxx-aa. He had carried a sample exactly like it, and had been wont to call enthusiastic attention to the curve of the instep and the set of the heel. He now realized that [p67] the effect depended entirely on the bow, and he seriously considered writing to the firm and suggesting the improvement.
In the midst of his reflections the young lady stirred and then sat up. Her hair was tumbled, and her eyes indicated that she had been indulging in recent tears. Resting her chin on her palms, she gazed gloomily down the road.
Mr. Opp, at the other end of the porch, also gazed gloomily down the road. The fact that he must make his presence known was annihilated by the yet more urgent fact that he could think of nothing to say. A bumblebee wheeled in narrowing circles above his head and finally lighted upon his coat-sleeve. But Mr. Opp remained immovable. He was searching his vocabulary for a word which would gently crack the silence without shattering it to bits.
The bumblebee saved the situation. Detecting some rare viand in a crack of the porch midway between the settee and the hammock, and evidently being a [p68] bibulous bee, it set up such a buzz of excitement that Mr. Opp looked at it, and the young lady looked at it, and their eyes met.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Opp, rather breathlessly; “you was asleep, and I come to see Mrs. Gusty, and—er—the fact is—I’m Mr. Opp.”
At this announcement the young lady put her hand to her head, and by a dexterous movement rearranged the brown halo of her hair, and twisted the pink bow into its proper, aggressive position.
“Mother’ll—be back soon,”—she spoke without embarrassment, yet with the hesitation of one who is not in the habit of speaking for herself,—“I—I—didn’t know I was going to sleep.”
“No,” said Mr. Opp; then added politely, “neither did I.” Silence again looming on the horizon, he plunged on: “I think I used to be in the habit of seeing you when you was—er—younger, didn’t I?”
“Up at the store.” She smiled faintly. “You bought me a bag of pop-corn once [p69] with a prize in it. It was a breastpin; I’ve got it yet.”
Mr. Opp scowled slightly as he tried to extract an imaginary splinter from his thumb. “Do you—er—attend school?” he asked, taking refuge in a paternal attitude.