The idea grew with him the next day and the next. Why should he not give her something? She deserved it. There seemed always some good reason why her clothes were the last to be bought and the plainest and shabbiest—and a woman’s clothes could always be made over.... Suppose she had a new suit—something that was really good—Suppose he got it for her—would she be in the least like that—other—one—? He had long ago abandoned the idea that there was a real resemblance between them. He knew now that he must have been overwrought, excited in some mysterious way—the woman herself seemed to have excited him.
The wrong that he had done Rosalind—even in his thought—made him tender of her. He did not buy a crimson flower to take home to her. But a week later he called one day at his bank and in the evening he handed her a little, twisted roll of something.
She had finished her work and was sitting for a minute before she brought her sewing basket. He laid the roll in the curve of her fingers in her lap.
When she glanced down at it she took it up in short-sighted surprise and looked at the new, crisp bills—and then at him—
He nodded. “For you,” he said. “It’s a new suit—you need it.” He balanced a little on his toes, looking down at her.
Her face flushed red; it grew from neck to chin and flooded up to him. “What do you mean?” she said under her breath.
“I want you to get a good one—good stuff, good dressmaker—It’s enough, isn’t it?”
“It is more—than enough—” The red had flooded her face again—as if she would cry. But she said nothing for a minute. She was looking down at the bills.
Then she looked up. The plain face had a smile like light from somewhere far away. “May I get just what I like—?”
He nodded proudly. She was almost beautiful... perhaps—in the new gown—He pulled himself together.... She had looked down again and was fingering the bills happily.... “There is a little muff and fur—” she said.