Her indignation took him by surprise. It seemed to him the most preposterous thing that she should blame him for being with Emmy.
“I’m sorry,” he said, though he really wasn’t, and his sister knew it; but, looking at him, she saw that he was tired and troubled, and she held her tongue.
Kirby’s work suffered that day because of his preoccupation with the problem of the evening before him. He was determined to offer something at least a little worthy of her. He had taken other girls out to dinner, but this was beyond measure different.[Pg 520]
At last he thought of a restaurant he had seen advertised—a quiet, dignified place; and he went there, engaged a table, and ordered a wonderful little dinner. All the rest of the day he imagined how it was going to be, he and Emmy sitting at that table, softly lit by candles. He knew what he was going to say to her, and how she would look at him, with her shining, solemn eyes.
He came early to the waiting room and walked up and down, restless and anxious.
“She didn’t want to come,” he thought. “Perhaps she didn’t like me.”
A pretty girl sitting on one of the benches smiled at him, but he looked past her. Ten minutes late now! Of course, other girls were usually late, but Emmy was different—utterly different. He remembered her now with a sort of amazement—the innocent beauty of her face, the almost incredible charm of her dear friendliness.
“No one like her!” he thought.
And that was true. There was not, and never could be, any girl like the one that he, in his ardent, imperious young heart, had invented.
Suppose she didn’t come at all?