“There! Walter,” says Miss Rosa sharply, “now talk about something else.”
But a shadow falls upon the wall outside, preceding a big, softly treading man, finely dressed, who pauses a second before the curtains and then passes on. Presently comes the waiter with a message: “Mr. Rolfe says—”
“Tell Rolfe I’m engaged.”
“I don’t know why it is,” says Goodall, of Memphis, “but I don’t feel as bad as I did. An hour ago I wanted to die, but since I’ve met you, Miss Rosa, I’d like so much to live.”
The young woman whirls around the table, lays an arm behind his neck and kisses him on the cheek.
“You must, dear boy,” she says. “I know what was the matter. It was the miserable foggy weather that has lowered your spirit and mine too—a little. But look, now.”
With a little spring she has drawn back the curtains. A window is in the wall opposite, and lo! the mist is cleared away. The indulgent moon is out again, revoyaging the plumbless sky. Roof and parapet and spire are softly pearl enamelled. Twice, thrice the retrieved river flashes back, between the houses, the light of the firmament. A tonic day will dawn, sweet and prosperous.
“Talk of death when the world is so beautiful!” says Miss Rosa, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Do something to please me, Walter. Go home to your rest and say: ‘I mean to get better,’ and do it.”
“If you ask it,” says the boy, with a smile, “I will.”
The waiter brings full glasses. Did they ring? No; but it is well. He may leave them. A farewell glass. Miss Rosa says: “To your better health, Walter.” He says: “To our next meeting.”