"I won't work till the unions get better conditions for a man. I won't be no slave to no man."
One sultry afternoon I went into the restaurant and found Flora away. Poignantly disappointed, I asked where she was.
"—Gone on a trip!" her mother explained, without explaining.
From time to time Flora went on "trips."
And one morning, several mornings, Flora was not there to serve at the breakfast table ... and I was hurt when I learned that she had gone back to Newark to live, and had left no word for me. Her father told me she "had gone back to George," meaning her never-seen husband from whom she evidently enjoyed intervals of separation and grass-widowhood.
I was puzzled and hurt indeed, because she had not even said good-bye to me. But soon came this brief note from her:
"Dearest Boy:—
Do come up to Newark and see me some afternoon. And come more than once. Bring your Tennyson that you was reading aloud to me. I love to hear you read poetry. I think you are a dear and want to see more of you. But I suppose you have already forgotten
Your loving
FLORA."
In the absurd and pitiful folly of youth I lifted the letter to my lips and kissed it. I trembled with eagerness till the paper rattled as I read it again and again. It seemed like some precious holy script.