'Soda—10 c.'
In front of Berger's grocery he met Martha Caldwell. They walked together to the corner.
Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes, an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her flat straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies in Henry's room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and Thursday evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many other evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that with 'the crowd' that the other local 'men' had long since given up calling at her house. But they were not engaged.
On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of the lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some curiosity at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide bottomless gulf, and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately for words. He began to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem self-control.
At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly embarrassing.
She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf by the stone walk.
He thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets, spread his feet, and stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him that he had never been so unhappy.
'Are you'—Martha began; hesitated; went on—'were you thinking of coming around this evening?'
'Why—it's Thursday, ain't it?'
'Yes,' she said, 'it's Thursday.'