CHAPTER XI
On her return from one of these walks with Erard, Miss Anthon found at the hotel a large card, with the name John Foster Wilbur scrawled in an untidy hand. He had left word that he should return after dinner. She was surprised at his arrival. Had the Hoister Company “gone up,” and had he come to break the news to her? Only this morning she had received the weekly bulletin of prosperity. Whatever brought him, she felt a thrill of unexpected pleasure in the thought of seeing him once more, and of listening to his convincing tale of life. He would be a relief, a refreshing vision of the concrete commonplace.
She dressed with unusual precision and care,—in a queer anxiety to make an impression on his inexperienced eyes. When he arrived punctually at eight, he gave her another surprise, for he appeared ten years older than when he was lounging about Paris a year ago. He was better dressed, though he had come in his travelling suit, as if in a hurry, on some business that did not permit forms. His square, brown face with its heavy nose wore an indomitable, convinced expression. Even his thick arm seemed to grip a possession when he shook her hand.
“How are you? Tired of Europe yet?” He drew up a chair and sat down ungracefully, bending forward, his powerful hands bedded on his knees.
“Your card was a genuine surprise,” she laughed back. “I had heard from you from Chicago only this morning.”
“Yes, yes,” he replied hastily. “I found I could squeeze out three weeks, a steamer sailed just so I could catch it,—the St. Paul, a fine boat,—and I packed my grip and came over.”
This laconic account of his journey exhilarated her. She laughed again.
“Is there anything wrong with the company?”
“No! I guess not. I shouldn’t be here if there was! Not that all your eggs or mine are in that basket now. We are settling down to a steady rush of business. You got all the papers and my letters. That blow in the papers was Jim Center’s work. I got him a good place on the Chicago Thunderer, and he’s done smart work for us. He’s coming over here, by the way. He wants to go in for literature, the drama specially, and he’s comfortably off now. No, things are all right over there.”
He waited, as if blanks in the conversation might be as expressive as words. But Miss Anthon did not help him.