“Well, then, I must walk,” she said, trying to reassure herself by her own voice. Her feet were very cold and a little damp in their thin slippers. They hurt.
For a minute she considered going to Mrs. Flandon’s house. But she abandoned that idea. Mrs. Flandon wasn’t the sort of person she wanted to know about all this. She’d think she was such a fool. It might hurt her chances of getting that place. Did she want that place, she queried and kept her mind fixed on that for a little, sliding into a dream of what she might do and how she might confound Barbara Brownley.
By this time her walking had become fairly aimless. She had come through the residence district where she had been living, into a street of tall apartment houses. Here and there in the windows of these buildings lights still gleamed. Freda tried to amuse herself by wondering what was happening there, tried to forget her painful feet. Then she met her second adventurer.
He was walking very fast, his head up, and he rounded a corner so abruptly that she had no time to avoid him. As if he had hardly sensed her presence he passed her, then she heard his steps cease to resound and knew he was turning to look at her. He did more, he followed her. In a few strides he had caught up with her and Freda, turning her head, gave him a look meant to be fraught with dignity but which turned out to be only very angry. The man laughed.
“Oh, all right,” he said, “if you look like that, maybe there is something I can do for you. I wasn’t sure of what sort of person you were. But I see now.”
His voice was rich and clear and pleasant. Freda could not see what he looked like but she could tell he was young, and he did not sound dangerous.
“Please don’t bother me,” she said, “I’m just—out for a walk.”
“I hope you’re near home,” he answered.
Freda couldn’t resist it.
“I’m just exactly a hundred and thirty-nine miles from home.”