Besides, she wasn’t alone. In every letter she flourished the Blumpittys. Where were those Blumpittys now? No sign of them since yesterday. Anyhow, she had prevented the boys from coming. Her fear, not of course formulated to them, had been that if they came, somehow, at the last moment they would try to prevent her going. Well—she looked about—they probably would. She pressed on, inwardly exulting, outwardly modest and asking pardon. And all the time she kept a sharp lookout, as if, in spite of everything, she was expecting some one. A Blumpitty? Not a bit of it.
“It’s no use,” said a red-faced man, with a wheezy voice, “not a bit o’ use yer tryin’ to get through yere.”
“There would be,” said the young lady, “if you helped me a little.”
That was different. But, “Ye’ll only get to stand a yard or two further on till nine o’clock. They wouldn’t open them gates fur President McKinley.”
“I want to see if my baggage got here all right. I sent it hours and hours ago.”
“Same bright idear’s occurred to the rest of us,” said a sharp-faced youth. But they let the young lady pass. And in the uncertain light they looked after the tall, striking figure, dressed in close-fitting dark green, wearing a perfectly plain green felt hat, which was somehow more distinguishable and more distinguished set upon a head like that than if it had been furbelowed after the fashion of the other feminine headgear that flowered and feathered in the throng. Public opinion would have set her down as “stuck up,” from the way she carried herself, had it not been for something too gentle in the face to support that view. The delicately molded chin, with the end softly turned up, gave an almost childish look to the face, and the long-lashed eyes, at once eager and abstracted, why were they always looking, looking? “Lost her party, I guess.”
On she went, changing her suit-case from one tired hand to the other, looking here, looking there, just as she had done in the Seattle streets. She had gone about all these last days consciously braced for a final encounter with Cheviot—a last attempt on his part to make her abandon the undertaking. That, of course, was the reason he had not written, nor even telegraphed, to say good-by. There was nothing surly, or even sullen, about Cheviot. Though they had parted “like that,” he wouldn’t be willing she should go without his making some sign. Not having done so could only mean—Oh, she knew what it meant.
She dramatized the coming scene—saw herself being “quite firm,” defeating, utterly routing him. But in order to carry out the program she mustn’t let him take her by surprise. And as now over this shoulder, now over that, she scrutinized the faces in the crowd, she felt her heart beat as she thought of the coming conflict. And the pink color rose in her face. She had been afraid “the boys” might want to turn her back. In her heart of hearts she was afraid that Louis, in some way not clearly foreseen, would succeed. She went forward with the sense of one escaping from a definite peril. At last, rather out of breath, she dropped her suit-case before the door of the brightly lighted baggage-room. Just inside was a man in his shirt-sleeves, and beyond him—
“There’s my trunk!” she cried out, with the cheerful air of one descrying a valued friend.
“Want it checked?”