Sue leaned forward. “Henry, I'm glad. I love this old suit. But there's a button coming loose—there, on your coat.”
“I know, Sue. I sewed at it, but it doesn't hold. I'm meaning to stop at a tailor's, next time I'm over toward Sixth Avenue.”
She was studying his face now. “You're happy, Henry,” she said.
“Well—in a sense! In a sense!”
“It is a good thing you came. I was forgetting about happiness.”
“I know. One does.” He consulted his watch. “It's five-twenty-two now, Sue. And we're catching the five-thirty-eight back to town.”
She did not speak. But her eyes met his, squarely; held to them. It was a forthright eye-to-eye gaze, of the sort that rarely occurs, even between friends, and that is not soon forgotten. Sue had been white, sitting there, when he came and after. Now her color returned.
He bent over and took her elbow. The touch of his hand was a luxury. Her lids drooped; her color rose and rose. She let him almost lift her from the chair. Then she went in for her hat and coat; still silent. They caught the five-thirty-eight.
“What are we going in for?” she asked, listless again, when they had found a seat in the train.
“Oh, come! You know! To see the almost famous Sue Wilde of Greenwich Village—”