“Good night, Tommy,” she said. “I hope you’ll sleep well!”
“Thanks,” he answered, feeling utterly foolish and miserable.
IV
He did not sleep well. He lay in bed, his hands clasped under his head, looking out at the summer sky.
“She’s a queer girl,” he thought, with a sort of resentment. “She’s bold—runs after a fellow; and yet you can see she doesn’t care two straws for him.”
In long imaginary conversations with Esther he regained his lost advantage. He was affable but cool—very cool. He could see her round little face quite clearly before him, her serene eyes, her neat fair hair.
He awoke after his restless night to a hot, still morning. He could not find a bath tub. Dressing reluctantly, unrefreshed and a bit irritable, he went downstairs. It was a few minutes after eight by his watch—a very decent, early hour, he thought; but, looking into the dining room, he saw only one place laid on the long table.
Mrs. Van Brink hurried in from the kitchen, limp, hot, and painfully anxious.
“Set down to the table, Mr. Ellinger,” she cried in her shrill voice. “I’ll bring your breakfast right off. We’re all done. You won’t have to wait more’n a minute.”
He ate alone, a little resentful that Esther didn’t appear. Then he went out on the porch. No one there—the shady street was quiet and empty. He went around the house to the sun-baked little yard at the back, where he discovered Mrs. Van Brink hanging dish towels on a line in terrible haste. Her face became positively convulsed with worry at the sight of his listlessness.