“Get it to-morrow. I will order it for you when I go in.”
Her hands made a gesture above the bundles. “Please don’t, Eldridge. I would rather—do it—myself.”
“Very well. But remember to get it.”
“Yes—I will get it.” She sighed softly.
Deceitful Rosalind! If he had not seen for himself the box in the attic with its overflowing soft colors and the grey fur, he would not have believed the deceit of her face....
Not that he was blaming anybody. He was not blaming Rosalind. The picture of Mr. Eldridge Walcott remained with him.... He was not likely to forget how Mr. Eldridge Walcott had looked to him—in the flash of light.
Perhaps he looked like that to Rosalind—to both Rosalinds! He turned a little in the seat and glanced down at her—Yes, they were both there—the plain little figure in its shabby jacket and the reticent, beautiful woman of the alcove.
The fingers in cheap gloves were fussing at a parcel. “I got fleece-lined shirts for Tommie—his skin is so sensitive—I thought I would try fleece-lined ones for him.”
Damn fleece-lined ones! Would she never talk to him except of undershirts—and coal-hods? He took the paper from his pocket and glanced casually at it.
“Has coal gone up?” she asked. “They said it would go up—if it stayed cold.” The anxious, lines were in her face.