“I do not know; unless you packed it yourself probably not. I had hardly time to pack my own.” She was passing out of the gate when the door opened and he shouted: “Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? It has all my money in it.”
“You threw it on the hatrack; good-by, dear.”
Before she reached the corner of the street she was hailed again.
“Elinor! Elinor Man! Did you wear off my coat?”
She paused after signaling the street car to stop, and cried: “You threw it on the silver-closet,” and the street car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more.
But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Man charging up and down the house, rushing out to the front door every now and then and shrieking up the deserted street after the unconscious Mrs. Man to know where his hat was and where did she put the valise key, and that there wasn’t a linen collar in the house.
And when he went away at last he left the front door, the kitchen door, and side door, all the down-stairs windows and front gate wide open, and the loungers around the station were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, perspiring man with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned, necktie flying, and his grip flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a doorkey in his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impatient, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at the pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car.
“A fair field and no favors, my dear!”