She was coming toward him steadfastly, a straight and slender figure in a dark dress and drooping black hat. He could see that the dress was shabby, that her shoes were dusty and a little worn. Her face was pale, and there was a smudge on her forehead.
“Emmy!” he cried.
She stopped short. A hot color rose in her cheeks, and ebbed away, leaving her still paler.
“Emmy!” he said uncertainly. “You look—you’ve changed!”
“Well, no,” she answered, in that serious little voice. “You see, I’d borrowed those clothes from a girl at the office. I stopped at her house to leave them, and I missed the train.” She paused a moment. “I’m sorry I ever wore them,” she said; “only she’s been so awfully dear and kind to me, and she said she wanted to make me look nice.”
“You did look nice!” said Kirby.
He felt a sort of anguish at the sight of her. Why hadn’t he known, all the time, that she was like this? She was innocent and honest and lovely—and he had so grossly offended against her! He had taken her to that third-rate place; he had been surly, obstinate, utterly blind; and, worst of all, he had judged her so arrogantly!
“I’m so sorry!” he said. “You don’t know—I didn’t mean—”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I never went out like that before, and I wish I hadn’t done it.”
They stood facing each other, standing in the middle of the empty road. She was downcast, but he was looking at her with amazement. She was not that little flippant painted thing, like a thousand other girls! How could he ever have thought so? Neither was she the wise, aloof young goddess. She was just Emmy, rather shabby and very tired, with a smudge on her forehead.