CHAPTER XX
QUEENIE
The shadows of evening met Van, as he stepped from the outside door and started up the street. Then a figure emerged from the shadows and met him by the corner.
It was Queenie. Her eyes were red from weeping. A smile that someway affected Van most poignantly, he knew not why, came for a moment to her lips.
"You didn't expect to see me here," she said. "I had to come to see if it was so."
"What is it, Queenie? What do you mean? What do you want?" he answered. "What's the trouble?"
"Nothing," she said. "I don't want nothing I can git—I guess—unless—Oh, is it her, Van? Is it sure all over with me?"
"Look here," he said, not unkindly, "you've always been mistaken, Queenie. I told you at the time—that time in Arizona—I'd have done what I did for an Indian squaw—for any woman in the world. Why couldn't you let it go at that?"
"You know why I couldn't," she answered with a certain intensity of utterance that gave him a species of chill. "After what you done—like the only real friend I ever had—I belonged to you—and couldn't even take myself away."
"But I didn't want anyone to belong to me, Queenie. You know that. I could barely support my clothes."