Henry was gripping the seat-corner just back of Mrs Ames's shoulder; a rigid shoulder. Mary had turned stiffly round. He couldn't stop his whirling mind long enough to decide anything. Why hadn't he gone straight by? What could they talk about? Unless they were to talk low, confidentially, Mary and her mother would hear most of it. And they couldn't talk confidentially. Not very well.
He took the seat.
What could they say?
But the surprising fact stood out that Martha was a nice girl, a likeable girl. Even if she had believed the stories about him. Even if... No, it hadn't seemed like Martha.
Henry was staring at Mrs Ames's tortoise-shell comb. Martha was looking out the window, tapping on the sill with a white-gloved hand.
A moment of the old sense of proprietorship over Martha came upon him.
'Silly,' he remarked, muttering it rather crossly, 'wearing white gloves into Chicago! Be black in ten minutes. Women-folks haven't got much sense.'
Martha gave this remark the silence it deserved. She dropped her eyes, studied the shopping bag. Then, very quietly, she said this:—
'Henry—it hasn't been very easy—but I have wanted to tell you about your stories....
'What about'em?' he asked, ungraciously enough. And he dug with his cane at the grimy green plush of the seat-back before him.