And she turned and watched him stalk away.
After a week of unrest, which he blamed upon the dulness of the practice of medicine, he remembered the roll of music which she had carried under her arm, and since it happened to be the same day of the week, to give nepenthe to his dulness he took the train down town which they had both taken that other day. She was there, and he fitted himself into the seat at her side with the utmost assurance of a welcome. She bubbled with laughter.
“Suppose I had told thee it was taken?”
“Impossible—for you,” he laughed.
“Why?”
“You are a Quaker, and Quakers always tell the truth.”
“I do not,” she said.
“It was really the only vacant seat in the car.”
“I am glad,” she laughed, and knew that there were many others, “that thee does not.”
“Oh! Glad?” But he was not sure. “Then that is not the truth, I suppose?”