So Miss Cigale sat down on a chair in a black corner, where a fur neckpiece, smelling terribly of moth balls, brushed her shoulder, and waited and waited. A little girl came in, gave up a ticket, and while she, too, waited, stared at Miss Cigale, and diligently chewed gum.
Such a queer little girl, with wispy hair, and a pale, drawn little face, and so very nonchalant an air. At last she was given a small gas stove, and went off with it. A young man came in with a traveling bag to dispose of; a stout woman came and drove a hard bargain over a ring. Nobody else had to wait, only Miss Cigale.
“Something is wrong!” she thought. “Oh, what has the poor boy done?”
Her hands and feet were very cold, her thin cheeks flushed and hot; she wished now that she had taken a cup of coffee. For she was very far away now from any such consolations as daisy fields. A burly man, with a straw hat at the back of his head, entered the shop; he spied her, and, to her horror, came directly over to her.
“You, the one with this here ticket; what’s the number?” he asked.
“I don’t remember the number,” said Miss Cigale faintly. He went over to the counter and spoke to the elderly man in a voice too low for her to hear. Then he sat down beside her, tipping his chair, and lit a cigar. The smoke blew into her face, and his boot, crossed on his knee, brushed her skirt.
“I can’t stand this,” thought she. “I’ll take the ticket, and come back later. I can’t bear this.” And she got up to go to the counter and ask for the ticket.
“Here!” said the man beside her. “Where you goin’?”
Miss Cigale didn’t trouble to answer, but, to her amazement, he sprang up and barred her way.
“Go away!” she cried, in a trembling voice, but with a jerk of the thumb he turned back his coat lapel and revealed a badge.