“Could I then ask you to go out with me some evening?”—all this with many beams and wipings of hands on his apron.
Well, I was very busy.
But one evening. Oh, just one evening—surely one evening.
Well, perhaps—
To-night, then?
No, not to-night.
To-morrow night?
No, no night this week or next week, but perhaps week after next.
Ah, that is so long, so long!
There was no earthly way to get to the stairs or elevators except by his stove. I came to dread it. Always the Spanish ex-tailor dropped everything with a clatter and chased after me. I managed to pass his confines at greater and greater speed. Invariably I heard his panting, “Listen! Listen!” after me, but I tore on, hoping to get an elevator that started up before he could make it.