“Haven’t I told you that I am a timid creature and especially about females? Over seventy I like ’em, and under seven I love ’em. Between, I shun ’em. I’ll do anything for you but that, my boy,” he concluded, as the train came rumbling in.
“Then I shall have to follow, and look her up myself,” returned his friend. “I’ll wire you before I come. Good-by.”
“By the way,” said Kent, leaning out from the car step upon which he had swung himself, “don’t be disturbed if you miss that drawing which we bought from Elder Dennett, at a bargain.”
“Miss it? Why, where is it?”
“In my suit case.”
“What’s it doing there?”
“Why, you see, if it’s a sketch for a finished portrait by Elliott, as I suspect, some of the art people in Boston might recognize it. Good luck! I hope not to see you soon; too soon, that is!”
Chance and a deranged railway schedule conspired against the peace of mind of the shy and shrinking Kent. Outside of Boston a few miles is a junction and a crossing. Here Kent’s train was held up by some minor accident. Here, too, the train from the north on the other road stopped for orders. Thus it was that Kent, stepping out to take the air, found himself looking into an open Pullman window, at a woman’s face framed in deepest black: a young face, but saddened and weary, whose unforgettable appeal of wistfulness had looked out upon him from the canvas in Sedgwick’s studio.
“Mrs. Blair!”
For once in his life, Chester Kent’s controlled tongue had broken the leash. Immediately he would have given a considerable sum of money to recall his impulsive exclamation. He was in an agony of shyness. But it was too late. The girlish face turned. The composed eyes scanned a serious-looking man of indeterminate age, clad in the cool elegance of light gray, and obviously harassed by some catastrophic embarrassment.