“But it’s a long way,” explained Enoch; “several miles, my dear.” She shook her pretty head.
“I don’t care,” she laughed. “Oh, do let’s walk, Mr. Crane,” she pleaded, “unless it’s—that is—unless it’s too far for you.” And that, of course, settled the matter. They set out at a good pace together, Enoch stubbornly holding it, and was amazed to find when they got as far as the post-office, that Sue confessed she was “not in the least tired.” He strode along by her side, feeling younger, she keeping pace with him with the stride of a slim young girl to whom walking was as easy as laughing or breathing. Now and then they stopped at the big store windows, Enoch explaining to her a host of interesting things about the methods in manufacture of the articles displayed. Indeed, he was as well informed as an encyclopedia, and where most young girls would have been bored, Sue took a lively interest in everything, and kept asking him more and more questions. He explained to her about guns and fishing-tackle—the skill required in making a perfect hexagonal trout-rod by hand, and how trout and salmon-flies were tied, mostly by young girls and women, whose deft fingers were far quicker and more skilful than a man’s. He described to her in the matter of gun-barrels the difference between “twist” and “Damascus,” pointing out the beauty of the old hammer-gun, in comparison with the new-fashioned hammerless, which he considered ugly and dangerous, and which, having no hammers, lacked the beauty of line and the true personality of a fowling-piece. Before the windows of the furriers, she listened to him while he told her of the habits of fur-bearing animals, and so they kept on, past the jeweller, the wholesale cobbler, and the fireproof safer—past cotton goods and babies’ caps—buttons by the million, and hardware by the gross. It was a far different conversational stroll from Lamont’s. It was so entertaining, clean, and practical. There was no subtle passion of Chopin in it, and she was rather glad there was not. When at last they reached State Street and entered the slippery entrance of the banana and the lemon merchants’ building, and had ascended the dingy stairs—dimly illumined by a single gas-jet flaring under a piece of smoked tin, and at the end of a lemon-scented corridor had opened the door of “Atwater & Grimsby, Architects,” and been sleepily greeted by the new office boy, who yawned over Enoch’s card and carried it languidly into the drafting-room beyond—Sue waited by Enoch’s side with very much the same feeling that a young girl would who had been persuaded into surprising a young man who had not the remotest idea in the world she was there, and who, finding that she was, rushed out, absolutely flabbergasted with delight. In his enthusiasm the young man first gripped Enoch by both shoulders heartily, and then stretched forth both hands in greeting to a young girl whom he considered far above all other young girls. Then he dragged them both into the drafting-room, where the two new draftsmen at work bowed to them solemnly as they passed, and where Joe hurried into Atwater’s private office to break the news to his partner, back of its board partition. Atwater heaved a sigh, calmly rolled down his sleeves, washed his hands, disconsolately combed his hair, put on his coat, and came forth, but by this time the loveliest girl in the whole world was perched contentedly on Joe’s high drafting-stool, and eagerly poring over a mass of his sketches, Enoch bending over one pretty shoulder and Joe over the other, while he explained how bad they were, and received in return more than one sincere little compliment, and a look in her dear eyes that thrilled him.
After a few brief moments of awkward welcome, Atwater excused himself and retired to his den, where he took off his coat, hung it back on its peg, rolled up his sleeves again, ran his fingers through his hair, and was about to say “Hell” very plainly, but checked himself and contented himself with “Gee whiz!” instead. They were more Joe’s friends than his, he argued to himself, as he rebent himself over a new lot of plumbers’ specifications. He knew there was no more serious work for Joe that day. He had seen it in his eyes. He heard it now in his frank, cheery laugh, that rang out and reached him over the board partition of his sanctum. He knew, too, that Joe would be capable of anything to make them feel at home, even to sending out for a little luncheon and serving it himself on his drawing-board. But it was not Paris. It was plain, hard, businesslike New York, where the conservative customs of the Puritan still prevailed. There were no tender chickens, fresh roasted—a half, a quarter, or even a wing—to be had within a stone’s throw; no good-natured marchand de vin to send up an excellent bottle of Burgundy for twenty-three sous, and his wishes for the best of appetites for nothing. Here it was all cold pie and business—a place where even millionaires gobbled their sandwich luncheons standing, a thing which even the poorest workman in Paris would not think of doing—since to eat one must have not only plenty of time, but a table, a chair, a knife and fork, clean plates and dean napkins, hors-d’œuvres, a filled glass, salad and cheese and coffee and a liqueur—all in a snug corner to his liking, where he can talk to the proprietor and pay compliments to his wife, and discuss at his leisure anything that enters his head to the strong, bare-armed girl who serves him.
“And what is this?” Sue asked with eager interest.
“Oh, that’s a little house we’re doing on Long Island for a bride-to-be,” Joe explained, pushing aside the pile of sketches Sue had been looking over, and revealing the pinned-down tissue-paper tracing beneath he had been at work on when they arrived.
“How fascinating!” exclaimed Sue. “Do tell me all about it.”
“Well, you see, it’s one of those modest matrimonial jobs,” laughed Joe, “where the fiancé and the bride-to-be want luxury and comfort, and a stunning design, and plenty of closet room, and sea view, and sun in every room, and——”
“For next to nothing,” remarked Enoch.
“That’s it, Mr. Crane. For so little that it isn’t easy. Every foot counts—every inch sometimes.” And he began to explain the planning of the three floors—placing one over the other, that Sue might better understand their respective relations.