He laid down the paper, stirred his large cup of coffee, and stared at the mother-of-pearl buttons on the waistcoat of the fat man, who was now gulping down soup, opposite him. “My land!” he was thinking, “friendship! I ain’t even begun to make all those friends I was going to. Haven’t done a thing. Oh, I will; I must!”
“Nice night,” said the fat man.
“Yuh—it sure is,” brightly agreed Mr. Wrenn.
“Reg’lar Indian-Summer weather.”
“Yes, isn’t it! I feel like taking a walk on Riverside Drive—b’lieve I will.”
“Wish I had time. But I gotta get down to the store—cigar-store. I’m on nights, three times a week.”
“Yuh. I’ve seen you here most every time I eat early,” Mr. Wrenn purred.
“Yuh. The rest of the time I eat at the boarding-house.”
Silence. But Mr. Wrenn was fighting for things to say, means of approach, for the chance to become acquainted with a new person, for all the friendly human ways he had desired in nights of loneliness.
“Wonder when they’ll get the Grand Central done?” asked the fat man.