Her visitor had accepted the open door as permission to enter and was standing in the hall.
He went rather white himself when he saw Tillie coming toward him down the hall. He knew that for Tillie this visit would mean that he was free—and he was not free. Sheer terror of his errand filled him.
“Well, here I am, Tillie.”
“All dressed up and highly perfumed!” said poor Tillie, with the question in her eyes. “You're quite a stranger, Mr. Schwitter.”
“I was passing through, and I just thought I'd call around and tell you—My God, Tillie, I'm glad to see you!”
She made no reply, but opened the door into the cool and shaded little parlor. He followed her in and closed the door behind him.
“I couldn't help it. I know I promised.”
“Then she—?”
“She's still living. Playing with paper dolls—that's the latest.”
Tillie sat down suddenly on one of the stiff chairs. Her lips were as white as her face.