IX
HE had left the office early and had caught a car that was passing the corner as he came out. As soon as he entered he knew that Rosalind was in the car, three seats ahead. He gave a little start, a quick flash—he did not want to catch Rosalind off guard—Then he smiled; it was not Rosalind of the alcove—it was the plain, every-day Rosalind, her lap heaped with bundles, and bundles on the seat beside her. Rosalind’s flannels, he thought, probably.
He moved down the aisle and stood beside the seat, lifting his hat and looking down at her.
“Why, Eldridge!” She looked up with the little peering smile and made a place for him among the bundles, trying to gather them up into her lap.
But he swept them away. “I’ll take these,” he said.
The little distressed look came between her eyes. Eldridge couldn’t bear bundles. “I thought I wouldn’t wait to have them sent,” she apologized. “It’s so cold—and they need them—right off.”
“Yes—” He looked at her jacket; it was thin, with the shabby lining showing at the edge. “Did you get yourself a warm wrap?” he asked.
She was looking out of the window, and the line of her cheek flushed swiftly. “No—I—”
“I want you to do it—at once.”
She glanced at him—a little questioning look in her face. “I—have—seen something I like—” she said.