"I can't eat any breakfast," Mrs. Jackson sobbed. "I'm too upset. I must go to my room!"
Jackson did n't eat much breakfast either. When his wife had gone, he threw the paper to the floor and kicked it under the table, then he jammed his hat on to his head, and with a whole mass of profanity bubbling and boiling within him, he left the house. In the calm that succeeded the storm within, Jackson reflected that his present domestic tranquillity was threatened by the presence of these Skinners, and not only that, but their coming, if he could not avail of it, would be a source of reproach for years to come. Being something of a bookkeeper, he figured out that if, on the one hand, he might be compelled to eat a bit of humble pie,—not customarily a part of the curmudgeon's diet,—on the other hand, he would gain perhaps years of immunity from reproaches and twitting.
Many times he passed and re-passed The Hotel, first with a grim determination to go in, and then with as grim a determination not to go in. But at last his wife's troubled, haunting eyes won, as they always did, and he went in.
Jackson waited an hour before Skinner appeared. Skinner had reckoned that about that time the curmudgeon would be lounging around downstairs, waiting to meet him quite accidentally, so he permitted himself a cigar and a stroll in the office, which stroll was made to appear casual.
The curmudgeon had disposed himself in a huge armchair, which commanded a view of the elevator, and no sooner did he see Skinner emerge than he busied himself assiduously staring at, but not perceiving, the pages of the Sunday magazine section. With equal assiduity, Skinner, who as soon as he had left the elevator had observed Jackson, avoided seeing him, although he clearly perceived him.
Thus they played at cross-purposes for a while, these two overgrown boys.
"Hello," said Jackson, looking up from his paper as Skinner strolled past for the fourth time. "You here yet?"
"I hate to tear myself away," said Skinner. "Have a cigar?"
Jackson took the weed and indicated a chair next his own.
"By Jove," said Skinner, seating himself and crossing his legs comfortably, "I like this town. Wonderful climate, fine people—and"—he turned to Jackson—"devilish good grub."