“Gone East!”
“Yes; they are in the mountains—in Woodland Valley.”
“Woodland Valley!”
“Yes. I couldn't tell you when they'll be back. They didn't know themselves when they left.”
A moment more and the door had closed and Halloran was down on the sidewalk. He turned aimlessly up the street. Gone East!—and no word for him! Perhaps his letters had not even reached her. Why had he not come straight back to Evanston that same week and claimed his answer? What an invertebrate creature he was, anyway! What a gloomy evening! How the shadows of the maples and elms closed down on his thoughts! The arc lamps at the corners, the long row of houses glowing with light, all smiled at him and drove him deeper into the gloom. Gone East!
It occurred to him that he had come out for another purpose. There was nothing for it now but to go to the Bigelows'; and with a glance at his watch, he turned in that direction.
The family were at dinner, he was informed, but Mrs. Bigelow would see him in a few moments. He was shown into a reception-room, where he could drop into a chair in the bay window and look in between the portières down the length of the living-room. The furniture was rich and heavy; the mantels and tables and bookcases were laden with bric-à-brac; the walls were covered with paintings and engravings, some of them fairly good, all of them very costly. From the dining-room came the jingle of knives and forks and the laughter of children, and now and then the heavy voice of Mr. Bigelow dominating. Then he heard the rustle of skirts and in came Mrs. Bigelow.
“How do you do, John? It is a long time since we have seen you. You must have gone away from Evanston when you left college.
“Yes; I'm not living here.”
“Where are you now, John?”