“Well, I'll tell you, Halloran”—Apples had risen, too, and was speaking in a low, confidential voice—“between ourselves, my wife isn't going out much now, and I'm afraid we can't do it. We'd like to very much, you know.”
Again came the whisper from behind the door. “Appleton!”
“Yes, dearie. Excuse me a second, Halloran.” He slipped out again and there was more whispering. When he returned it was to say: “My wife would be very glad to have you all come here instead. We will have the supper up here in our apartment. Tell them we'll be very glad to see them—and you, too.”
“Thank you. I'll tell them.”
Apples showed him out, and as he left the building and headed for the State Street trolley he found himself thinking much of Apples and his rise in life.
When he was on the Evanston train, however, he had something else to think about. In order to get George he must go either to the Bigelows' home or to Margaret's. Not one of the letters he had written since that evening had been answered. Besides, he was not in the right frame of mind to see her—or he thought he was not, which amounted to the same thing. All day he had been deep in the trouble of the Craig family, and in his talk about coming out after George he had not taken time to think just how he was to manage it. But he was realizing it now as he left the train and started up toward the Ridge; and as this is to be an honest history, the facts of what followed must be told.
Half-way up from the station, while he was walking briskly along, boasting inwardly that he was calm and ready to see Margaret, his legs, without warning him, turned him off on a side street. When he had rounded the block, and had convinced himself that now he was headed straight for the Ridge, they deceived him again. This was humiliating, and, more, was not the way to march to victory. Twice he walked around the square, but the third time, by a strong effort, he succeeded in passing the fatal corner. Soon he could see the house a little way ahead. It occurred to him that he was rushing along at an absurd speed, and he walked more slowly. A moment more and he was in front of the house, was turning in up the walk—but, no, he was mistaken; for the legs, suddenly out of all control, carried him by and nearly a block farther up the street before he could check them and get them headed straight. He found he could manage them better by stepping once on each square of the cement walk, squarely in the middle each time; and he could keep this up by giving all his mind to it. This made it necessary to take rather long steps, but the twilight was deepening, and, besides, there were few other pedestrians on the street. Again he drew near. He looked up at the windows—they were dark, excepting a light in the rear and one upstairs. Something forbidding about the square old house, with its rows of unlighted windows, chilled his heart, struck deep into the energy that had carried him thus far, and he faltered. But this would not do. He forced his eyes down to the sidewalk and resolutely put his right foot on the next square of cement—then his left on the second square—and on, step by step, up the front walk. He mounted the steps and crossed the wide veranda to the door—then hurriedly pushed the bell.
There was a long wait. After a time he heard doors opening and closing within, and the sound of a person moving; finally there were footsteps in the hall and the door was opened.
“Is—is Miss Davies here?”
“Why—no. Miss Davies and her mother have gone East.”