So he leaves the mooring of his hotel and trails the trailer.
One short block he walks, and then just as he is about to come abreast of her she turns about and meets him with the same smile that has been doing duty for the past five years.
She knew he had reached that particular spot by that woman’s intuition, keyed up so fine as to be on feather edge all the time.
Her little bow is modest—even coy. It is like the bow of a school girl who is afraid she is not doing quite the right thing, but who is just a trifle reckless, and is willing to take a chance or two just for a lark.
“How do you do?” she asks.
“Great; how are you; fine night; where are you going?” he rattles off, trying to appear at ease, and be the real fellow.
“I was just taking a walk. You see, it was so quiet in the house, and I sat there all alone until I just thought I would die, so I came out to get a little fresh air and see if I couldn’t walk myself tired before bed time.”
That accounts for her being out, of course, and it is very nicely delivered, too; besides, it gives the man a chance to say something, and he is prompt to say it.
“All alone? You don’t mean to say that you live all alone?”
Oh, no; she doesn’t live all alone all the time. But Jack—that’s her husband, you know—he is on the road—commercial man, you see, the best and dearest fellow in all the world, and it’s such a horrid position he has, too, always traveling. He went away just a month ago on his Western trip, to be gone two months, think of it; almost an age. He’s with the big dry goods house of Wools & Muslins, the biggest in New York. But next year Jack is going to have an office position and then everything will be all right.