Cis left the dining room and went to the desk. Here she found two letters in the pigeonhole that bore the number of her room, but neither was from Mr. Lucas, as she had been sure one must be. There was a brief note from Jeanette Lucas in reply to one which Cis had written her, telling her that she had seen her uncle and that he held out hope of a position for her. Miss Lucas said nothing of herself beyond that she was to sail for Europe the following week. She wrote to Cis with much more than the politeness of a slight acquaintance; the short note breathed warmth of feeling for Cis, and a personal sadness that depressed Cis, though she could not have said wherein it lay.
The other letter was a long one from Nan, full of love and longing for Cis, and all the trivial news of the office, her home, their common acquaintances, which are such important items to an exile, just because they are so homely and unimportant. Cis folded this letter and slipped it into her pocket with homesick heaviness of heart that surprised her. “Of course there’s nothing to prevent me from going back if I want to,” she reminded herself.
Deciding against the trolley trip, Cis arose from the leather seat upon which she had been sitting, and began to stroll up and down the lobby, and down its adjacent corridors, returning on her beat. One of the corridors had shop-like rooms up and down its length, rented for various sorts of business—a little toy shop, candy shop, book shop, flower shop, a shop for fancy work materials, all sorts of attractive things offered for sale; while a manicure, a chiropodist, a barber and a bootblack were lodged there, in their respective rooms, to minister to the personal comfort of the patrons of the hotel, and people from beyond its walls.
The bootblack’s establishment especially attracted Cis’s eye; it was the apotheosis of the elevated chair and foot rest and the active little Italian ministrant, to be found on street corners. Here were several chairs, better said, thrones; the walls were panelled in attractive colors; there were hangings of deep yellow, framing the casement of the door and one window at the rear; a table, with papers and magazines upon it, in its centre a well-shaped vase holding two perfect yellow roses.
Cis looked into this palace of charity to wayworn shoes, admiring its perfection. There were two or three assistants at work on as many customers, and there were two other customers waiting to have their shoes polished. In a chair unmistakably comfortable sat one of these waiting customers; he was reading a magazine. As Cis loitered, looking in at the open door from the hotel corridor, this customer turned over his magazine, which he held doubled over for convenience in reading it, and his eyes met Cis’s eyes.
He was exceedingly good looking, dark haired, blue eyed, fresh tinted, with well-cut features, but it was not for his good looks that Cis instantly decided that here was the person for whom she had been seeking. It was rather for an indescribable air of man of the world about him; the ease of his excellent clothes and their manner of wearing; his steady, unembarrassed gaze, that did not intrude upon her, yet seemed to take Cis in as to her every detail, to approve her and like her, be ready to meet her friendliness on its own ground; “be a human being,” Cis would have summed it up. But there was no denying that this young man possessed decided good looks and instant charm which were not a necessary part of the qualifications upon which Cis had insisted as a part of the outfit of the person whom she should adopt as the one who should make her wilderness blossom with comradery.
Cis Adair had never hesitated to take anything that she wanted, nor, if it did not come after her, to go out after it. She had never wanted anything that was forbidden by the highest, nor the lower laws, but she invariably reached out after what she wanted. Now she glanced down at her shoes, which were shapely, fine as to leather, and which she decided were enough in need of polishing to warrant her treating them to it. She entered the attractive shop.
The customers happened at that moment to be all men, but Cis had no shyness with men; she was nearer to shy with women. She came in without embarrassment, though every eye turned on her. The young man who had innocently trolled her hither at once got upon his feet; the other waiting customer did not move.
“This is the most comfortable chair,” he said, indicating the one which he had just vacated for Cis. “Please take it; I’ll sit here.” He dropped into the chair next beyond his former one, which Cis took with a hearty “Thank you,” and a bright smile. His voice was quite beautiful, soft, rich, mellow, caressing, like a musical cadence, as he spoke these few words.
“I never saw a bootblacking place like this,” Cis commented.