"Did you hear that constant clatter this afternoon?" he asked.
"Yes, it was my typewriter," she answered demurely. She was evidently a stenographer.
"I'm sorry," said Hardy awkwardly, "but it disturbs me." Then with more innocent joy than foolish pride, he continued:
"I—ah—write, you know."
Miss Wheeler gathered up her books. "I regret that it annoys you," she said frigidly, "but I cannot help it." Then with an exact imitation of his tone and manner, she added: "I—ah—write, you know." And then she left him alone.
Hardy had business in town of such a pressing nature that he could not even stop to tell Mrs. Kitson that he was going. He sent her a telegram from the station, saying he did not know when he would be able to return.
The gay streets of the city, brilliantly lighted, even in the early evening, were full of allurement, as they always are, to one who has been away. But a higher impulse within him was striving with the one that demanded pleasure. He would go back. So he bought some magazines, and sat down to wait for the outgoing train, the very next day.
He cut the leaves mechanically, and dipped here and there into the pages. Then the title of a story caught his attention, and he read it to the finish. It was a simple tale, told with no striving after effect, but the lines were broadly human, and it rang true. The signature was "Constance Wheeler."
The consciousness of his own caddishness came home to him like a blow.
They had a long talk the next day, and he told her what he was trying to do. "But you discourage me," he said. "I never can do it as you do."