Soon after her return, the Sunday editor called her into his office—her desk was across the room, immediately opposite his door.
“We want a series of articles on what is doing in New York for the poor—especially the foreign poor of the slums. Now, here’s the address of a man who can tell you about his own work and also what others are doing—where to send in order to see how it’s done, whom it’s done for, and so on.”
Emily took the slip. It read “Dr. Stanhope,—Grand Street.” She set out at once, left the Bowery car at Grand street and walked east through its crowded dinginess. She passed the great towering Church of the Redeemer at the corner of —— street. The next house was the one she was seeking. A maid answered the door. A sickly looking curate, his shovel-hat standing out ludicrously over a pair of thin, projecting ears, passed her with a “professional” smile that made his tiny, dimpled chin look its weakest. The maid took her card and presently returned to conduct her through several handsome rooms, up heavily carpeted stairs, under an arch, into a connecting house that was furnished with cold and cheap simplicity. The maid pushed open a door and Emily entered a large, high-ceilinged library, that looked as if were the workshop of a toiler of ascetic tastes. At the farther end at a table-desk sat a man, writing. His back was toward her—a big back, a long, broad, powerful back. He was seated upon a strong, revolving office-chair, yet it seemed too small and too feeble for him.
“Well, my good girl, what can I do for you?” he called over his shoulder, without ceasing to write.
Emily started. She recognised the voice, then the head, neck, shoulders, back. It was the man she had “confessed” in Paris. She was so astonished that she could make no reply, and hardly noted the abstracted patronising tone, the supercilious words and the uncourteous manner. He dropped his pen, laid his great hands on the arms of his chair and swung himself round. His expression changed so swiftly and so tragically that Emily forgot her own surprise and with difficulty restrained her amusement.
He leaped from his chair and strode toward her—bore down upon her. His brilliant, dark eyes expressed amazement, doubt of his sanity. There was a deep flush in his pallid skin just beneath the surface.
“I have come to ask”—began Emily.
“Is it you?” he said, eagerly. “Is it you?”
“I beg your pardon.” Emily’s face showed no recognition and she stood before him, formal and business-like.