There was a long pause. Henry dug and dug with his stick.
Finally, eyes wandering a little but mouth still set, he said huskily:—
'Yes, we're engaged.'
'What was that, Henry?'
'I said, “Yes, we're engaged.”'
'O—o—oh, Henry, I'm so glad!'
'Don't say anything about it, Martha.'
'Oh, of course not!... You've no idea how nice people are being to me. They're giving me a party to-night, down on the South Side. We're coming back to-morrow.'
Mr Merchant met her in the Chicago depot. Henry had excused himself before Mrs Ames and Mary got up. He would have hurried off into the grimy city, but the crowd held him back. Martha saw him and dragged the rich and important man of her choice toward him.
Henry thought him very old, and not particularly goodlooking. He was a stocky, sandy-complexioned man; dressed now, as always, in brown, even to a brown hat. He looked strong enough—Henry knew that he played polo, and that sort of thing—but gossip put him at thirty-eight. He certainly couldn't be under thirty-five. Henry wondered how Martha could...