“Fever,” she said. “And headache, and he’s sick all the time.... Poor little fellow!”
She stared ahead of her with troubled eyes.
“I can’t help being worried,” she went on. “The doctor says it’s just a bilious attack, but he’s been sick for four days, and he seems to be growing worse. Katie’s dreadfully upset.... I did wish I could speak to you.”
“Why didn’t you telephone or write?”
She shook her head.
“I wouldn’t like to do that!” she said. “But I did hope you’d come soon.”
It was curious that they practically never looked at each other, these two. The proprietress, who had witnessed this friendship for the past five years, and with favor, because of the trade it brought, had often observed that. She had so often seen them sitting thus, at a table, looking past each other, and not speaking very much. It was her theory that they met outside, and that the man was a millionaire with a jealous wife, and that he adored her waitress. A romantic and delightful theory; she was not above recounting it as a true tale to certain friends. And it was especially nice because this most flattering attention didn’t at all unsettle Rosaleen; she was invariably prompt, careful and good-tempered, a little aloof, but that was no fault.
He didn’t touch his dinner to-night. He got up and thrust his arms into his overcoat again.
“Telephone to Doctor Denz as soon as you go out,” he said. “I’ll stop on my way home and arrange with him.... Try not to worry, old girl.... And you could telephone me at the office to-morrow, if you wanted.”