“Rue,” he said, “I’m going out to telephone to Mr. Stull. It may take some little time. You don’t mind waiting, do you?”
“No,” she said.
“Don’t you want another ice or something?”
She confessed that she did.
So he ordered it and went away.
As she sat leisurely tasting her ice and watching with unflagging interest the people around her, she noticed that the dining-room was already three-quarters empty. People were leaving for café, theatre, or dance; few remained.
Of these few, two young men in evening dress now arose and walked toward the lobby, one ahead of the other. One went out; the other, in the act of going, glanced casually at her as he passed, hesitated, halted, then, half smiling, half inquiringly, came toward her.
“Jim Neeland!” she exclaimed impulsively. “—I mean Mr. Neeland––” a riot of colour flooding her face. But her eager hand remained outstretched. He took it, pressed it lightly, ceremoniously, and, still standing, continued to smile down at her.
Amid all this strange, infernal glitter; amid a city of six million strangers, suddenly to encounter a familiar face—to see somebody—anybody—from Gayfield—seemed a miracle too delightful to be true.
“You are Rue Carew,” he said. “I was not certain 108 for a moment. You know we met only once before.”