His eyes look no longer into the void, but gaze upon the antithesis of death. His foot is set in an undiscovered country to-night. He is obedient, ready to go.
“Good night,” she says.
“I never kissed a girl before,” he confesses, “except my sisters.”
“You didn’t this time,” she laughs, “I kissed you—good night.”
“When shall I see you again,” he persists.
“You promised me to go home,” she frowns, “and get well. Perhaps we shall meet again soon. Good night.”
He hesitates, his hat in hand. She smiles broadly and kisses him once more upon the forehead. She watches him far down the aisle, then sits again at the table.
The shadow falls once more against the wall. This time the big, softly stepping man parts the curtains and looks in. Miss Rosa’s eyes meet his and for half a minute they remain thus, silent, fighting a battle with that king of weapons. Presently the big man drops the curtains and passes on.
The orchestra ceases playing suddenly, and an important voice can be heard loudly talking in one of the boxes farther down the aisle. No doubt some citizen entertains there some visitor to the town, and Miss Rosa leans back in her chair and smiles at some of the words she catches:
“Purest atmosphere—in the world—litmus paper all long—nothing hurtful—our city—nothing but pure ozone.”