He had got her message and he had not troubled to come. She had to run now to catch the train. He hadn’t come. He didn’t care.
She stopped short as she reached the gates.
“All abo-o-ard!” cried the conductor.
But she did not go. She turned away from the train with a strange blank look on her face.
“I can’t!” she thought. “I love him. I can’t go like this!”
She was surprised to find that it had grown dark when she reached the street. A cold wind blew, and the myriad flashing lights of Forty-Second Street, the noise, the crowds, confused her. Her composure and her dignified self-reliance were gone; she felt desolate and abandoned.
“What’s the matter with me?” she thought with a sob. “I ought to be ashamed of myself. He got my message—and he didn’t come!”
She tried to stop a taxi, but they all went past.
“But he wanted to come!” she cried in her heart. “I know he wanted to come, only he’s too proud. I hurt him too much.”
He would not come to her, so she was going to him. Was it possible?