“You’re a nice man,” she said finally.
Martin stopped and looked directly at her.
“If you knew what I am, you’d run like a frightened cat. You’d run anywhere, and afterwards thank God for it.” Then, seeing her eyes widen and her fingers clutch her bag, he continued more gently, “For you are a little cat, aren’t you, Cat?” and he hastened on with long strides.
The girl stared after him, then turned, and with her head hanging down, walked slowly the other way.
As Martin approached Seventh Avenue he noticed a bright-eyed old woman on the corner. On the pavement in front of her was a basket of French marigolds. Martin hesitated and stared at the flowers for a second, then at the old woman.
“What do they mean?” he asked. “They look like wax.”
“Oh, sir, they ain’t. I grew ’em myself.” The old woman watched him, her hands in her apron.
“Give me a bunch of the prettiest!” Martin pointed. “There!—in the center. They are for someone I love.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll give ye the bunch that’s prettiest.” She chose the freshest ones and carefully wrapped the stems in a piece of damp brown paper.