Here he stepped on a twig whose crackling noise caused Thurley to turn half way and glance up with neither fear nor surprise—nor special delight.
“Why, it’s Dan Birge,” was all she said, raising her hand cordially.
“Do you mind?” His voice sounded weak and far away. “May I sit down? I—I was passing and I saw your cab; I was sure it was yours from the monogram—”
“If you like. How nice to see you again!” She spoke in such deliberate fashion that Dan wondered whether she was pretending. She seemed years older. It was not the rouge nor the sophisticated look in the blue eyes—nothing one could describe, unless one wished to be abstruse and say her soul had aged.
Dan broke the pause by saying lightly, “Odd we should meet here, isn’t it? I was out of town when you came—Lorraine told me about it last night. She asked if she should call—I didn’t know whether or not you’d like to have her.”
“It would be most kind,” Thurley said in the same even voice. “I have been deluged with calls—mostly out of curiosity. Or to see if I would deny having worn some one else’s clothes and having lived in a box-car ... the old car was used for kindling for a poor family, Ali Baba says.”
“I didn’t know about it until it was too late to save it. It hurt when I thought of your old wagon being chopped up.”
“Did it? Sentimental goose,” she managed to laugh at him.
“Were you having a serious ‘think’?” he asked, after a brief silence.