It was a long while before she was able to efface the traces of emotion. She did all she could before she forced herself to look at him again and say what she must say.
"If I could—I would, Mr. Wahlbaum," she faltered. "No man has ever been kinder to me, none more courteous, none more gentle."
He looked at her wistfully for a moment, and she thought he was going to speak. But he was wise in the ways of the world. He had lost. He understood
it. Speech was superfluous. He was a quaint combination of good sportsman and philosophic economist.
He held his peace.
When she left that evening after saying good night to him she paused at the door, irresolutely, and then came back to his desk where he was still standing. For he had never failed to rise when she entered in the morning or took her leave at night.
In silence, now, she offered him her hand, the quick tears springing to her eyes again; and he took it, bent, and touched the gloved fingers with his lips, gravely, in silence.
A few days later, for the first time in her experience there, Mr. Wahlbaum was not at the office.
Mr. Grossman came in, leered at her, said that Mr. Wahlbaum would be down next day, lingered furtively as long as he quite dared, then took himself off, still leering.