But Mrs. Baxter was a particular friend of Mildred’s. She would bother him. She would ask questions. She would want to know what he was doing, wandering about at ten o’clock at night. She would suspect that there had been a quarrel.
The idea was intolerable. He would not go to the Baxters’; and, not having been long in the neighborhood, he knew no one else.
As he stood deliberating, the lights in the house behind them went out, leaving the world very dark. For the moment, he felt a thousand miles from home. He felt[Pg 228] marooned, cut off. He couldn’t believe that just around the corner was that six-room house of hollow tile, with all improvements—that house which was mystically more than a house because it was his home. He owned it. In his experience as assistant credit manager he had seen what fatal accidents could happen to defer deferred payments, and he would have none of them. His rule was to pay cash. Mildred had more than once protested against this rule, but in vain.
“You’re always looking ahead and imagining that all sorts of queer, awful things are going to happen,” she had said, only the day before; “but they never do!”
They didn’t, didn’t they? A lot she knew!
“Where can I get a taxi?” asked the voice at his side, and he came out of his reverie with a start.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to walk to the station,” he said; “unless you happen to pick one up on the way.”
“Oh, dear!” said she. “Is it far? Half a mile? But if I’ve got to walk that far—isn’t there some sort of hotel in the town?”
“Yes—there’s the American House,” Edward told her.
“Then I’ll go there,” said she. “If you’ll just please tell me the way—”