“Charley—” he said, and held out his hand.
“Wick, old man!” said Charles, taking it in his.
IV
It was still raining the next morning, still blowing. Charles Hackett had made his adieus, had been driven to the station in Wickham’s car, caught an early train, and got into the city. He came out of the Grand Central into the steady downpour, pulled the shabby hat down on his forehead, turned up the collar of the threadbare overcoat, and set off on foot.
The wet and the mud soaked through his worn shoes, and the fine polish was hopelessly lost. A very battered rover he looked; but the girl in the florist’s shop thought him a splendid figure.
“Charley!” she cried.
There was no one else in the shop at this early hour, and he went with her into the little back room, dim and chilly and bare, with a long table, upon which the carnations she had been sorting lay scattered.
“You’re so wet! Won’t you take off your coat, Charley?”
“Can’t, Betty. I’m sailing at eleven, and there are things—”
“Sailing, Charley? But—you’re not going away?”