He turned to look for a cab; then remembered that he had no longer fifty cents to waste upon so mere a luxury as the economy of physical strength. It was his first lesson in poverty,—that a sick man must walk, because he could not afford to ride. Besides, it proved to be a private carriage that he had seen. The elderly coachman, evidently a family retainer, had just shut the door and clambered to the box; he was waiting to tuck the green cloth robe deliberately about his elegant legs, when a low exclamation from the coach window caused Bayard to look back.
Helen Carruth had opened the door, and stood, irresolute, with one foot upon the step, as if half her mind were in, and half were out the carriage. She was richly dressed in purple cloth, and had that fashionable air which he could not conceive of her as dispensing with if she were a missionary in Tahiti. She looked vivid, vital, warm, and somehow, gorgeous to him.
“You?” she cried joyously; then seemed to recall herself, and stepped back.
He went up to her at once.
“I have been staying with Clara Rollins for a week,” she hastened to say. “I am just going home. It’s her afternoon at the Portuguese Mission, so she could not see me off. I did not know you were in town, Mr. Bayard.”
“I am not,” said Bayard, smiling wanly. “I am on my way to Windover; I am late to my train now.”
“Why, jump in!” said the young lady heartily. “We are going the same way; and I’m sure Mrs. Rollins would be delighted to have you. She’s at the Woman’s Branch.”
“The Woman’s who?” asked Bayard, laughing for the first time for many days. He had hesitated for a moment; then stepped into the carriage, and shut the door.
“I presume you’ve been in this vehicle before?” began Miss Carruth.