"Yes—I didn't know but you and your friend would like to go out somewhere?"
"Would you, Rose?"
"Not tonight, thank you. But you go. Don't keep in on my account."
Mary struggled a moment, then she smiled with tender archness.
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Taylor. I'll be ready soon." After he had gone she said:
"Perhaps he'll propose!"
Rose glowed sympathetically. "I hope he will."
The next day Rose went down town alone. The wind had veered to the south, the dust blew, and the whole terrifying panorama of life in the streets seemed some way blurred together, and forms of men and animals were like figures in tapestry. The grind and clang and clatter and hiss and howl of the traffic was all about her.
She came upon the river just as the bridge was being opened. Down toward the lake, which had to her all the wonder and expanse of the sea, boats lay thickly, steamers from deep water, long, narrow and black. Excursion boats, gleaming white, and trimmed with shining brass, lay beside the wharves, and low-lying tugs, sturdy, rowdyish little things, passed by, floating like ducks and pulling like bull-dogs, guiding great two-masted sailing boats and long, low, grimy steamers, with high decks at the ends. The river ran below, gray-green, covered with floating refuse. Mountainous buildings stood on either side of the waterway.