“Miss Graham—leaving on the five o’clock train for Hartford—wants to see him at the Grand Central. Right! I’ve got it all written down.[Pg 557]”
That was a later train than she had meant to take, and there was a long time to be filled. She went into the book department of a big store and picked out something to read—a serious book, the sort she had been brought up to appreciate. Then she went to a tea room and had a plate of ice cream.
At half past four she reached the station, and stood near the gates of the train, waiting—such a neat, composed, dignified young creature, with her book under her arm. At heart she was nervous, but she meant to try. She was going to speak to Randall gravely and earnestly. She would not encourage him too much, but she would offer him her friendship, if he would be worthy of it. It was a difficult thing for her to do, this cherished only daughter, so sheltered, so gently bred, so quietly proud in her own honorable and blameless life. She had taken a step down in doing this.
Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady and clear, searching the crowd for him. It was right to try and help him.
He was late in coming. Only fifteen minutes now—only ten minutes!
On impulse she hurried to a telephone.
“He hasn’t got the message,” she thought. “I’ll just say good-by. I’ll tell him that perhaps I’ll see him again.”
The same masculine voice answered.
“I did give him the message,” it protested; “but you see, he’s got a little party on here. He must have lost track of the time. I’ll call him.”
“No!” she cried. “Thank you. Good-by!”