One day I went into his office and the clock was there, and his old torch and a nickle-plated oiler, mementoes of the field. I looked at the clock, and "Her Eyes" smiled at me, or I thought they did, and said, just as plain as words, "Glad to see you, dear friend; sit down." But I turned my back to that clock; I can resist temptation when I know where it is coming from.
One day, a few weeks later, I stopped before a store window in a crowd to examine some pictures, satisfied my curiosity, and in stepping back to go away, put the heel of my number ten on a lady's foot with that peculiar "craunch" that you know hurts. I turned to make an apology, and faced the original of the picture on the clock. A beautiful pair of eyes, the rest of the face was hidden by a peculiar arrangement of veil that crossed the bridge of the nose and went around the ears and neck.
Those eyes, full of pain at first, changed instantly to frank forgiveness, and, bowing low, I repeated my plea for pardon for my clumsy carelessness, but was absolved so absolutely and completely, and dismissed so naturally, that I felt relieved.
I sauntered up to Hopkins' office. "Hopkins," said I, "I just met your wife."
"You did?"
"Yes, and I stepped on her foot and hurt her badly, I know." Then I told him about it.
"What did she say?" asked Hopkins, and I noticed a queer look. I thought it might be jealousy.
"Why, well, why I don't know as I remember, but it was very kindly and ladylike."
There was a queer expression on Hopkins' face.
"Of course—"