She was not committing herself merely by going to Philadelphia and walking past Martin’s place of business! Suppose she did meet him! Suppose they actually encountered one another, face to face! What then? There was nothing compromising in that! She could explain her presence in Philadelphia in a thousand ways should he be interested. She blessed the judgment that had prompted her to confide in no one; Beatrice believed she was attending a Book-Dealers’ Convention, Alice that she was having her Thanksgiving dinner with Miss Holland.
§ 2
As she left the overheated parlor car at Broad Street Station her composure was thoroughly restored. There was a tingling nimbleness in the air; the clear, November day was bright with metallic sunshine. Jeannette tipped the “red-cap” for carrying her bags, climbed into a taxi-cab and with a casual air that seemed to spring from familiarity with such proceedings, directed to be driven to her hotel.
The cold bare streets, deserted on account of the holiday, the brilliant foyer of the Bellevue, the urbane room-clerk, the gilded elevator cage, the large high-ceilinged bedroom with its trim, orderly furniture, its double-bed, glistening with white linen, its discreet engravings of Watteau ladies in the gardens of Versailles, followed in quick succession. Then she was standing at the window looking down into the wide, dismal gray street far below, and the departing bell-boy softly closed the door behind him.
She was here; she was in Philadelphia; she would have that to remember always. If nothing else happened, she could never forget she had come this far.... Somewhere in the city was Martin; he was preparing to eat his Thanksgiving Dinner; it was a quarter past six, he was probably dressing! ... Suppose he elected to eat the meal with friends in the main dining-room of her hotel! Her throat tightened convulsively and her fingers twitched. Well, she would be equal to facing him if he saw her; she would not be frightened into abandoning the course that was natural for her to follow. If it had been actually the case that she was here in Philadelphia to attend a Book-Dealers’ Convention, she would put on her black satin dinner frock and go down to dinner with her book; she did not propose to allow herself to do differently.... It would be ridiculous to eat her Thanksgiving dinner upstairs in her rooms!
She bathed, she did her hair with unusual success, she powdered her neck and arms, she donned the black satin with the square neck and jet trimming, and with her book beneath her arm, mesh bag in her hand, descended to the dining-room at half past seven. There was an instant’s terror as she stood in the curtained doorway of the brilliantly-lit dining-room. There rushed upon her impressions of flowers, music, the odor of food, a wave of heat, the flash of napery, the gleam of cutlery, faces, faces everywhere,—heads turning,—eyes following,—whispers,—a hush as she made her way in the wake of the obsequious head-waiter.
Steeling her nerves, measuring every movement, she seated herself with deliberation, deliberately set her bag and book at her right hand, deliberately turned her attention to the menu, deliberately raised her eyes, and gazed about the room as she deliberately ordered.
But there was nothing! There was nobody! No one was looking at her; no one had noticed her entrance! The music was wailing in waltz measure, the diners were talking and laughing, attendants hurrying to and fro. He was not there; there was no one faintly resembling him in the room.
She cleared her throat and raised a tumbler of water to her lips, but as she did so, her teeth chattered an instant against the thin glass.