But he found that the agony was all over. Even to save his dignity as one who was being dramatic, he couldn’t keep his thoughts on Istra.
Every time he thought of Nelly his heart was warm and he chuckled softly. Several times out of nothing came pictures of the supercilious persons whom he had heard solving the problems of the world at the studio on Washington Square, and he muttered: “Oh, hope they choke. Istra’s all right, though; she learnt me an awful lot. But—gee! I’m glad she ain’t in the same house; I suppose I’d ag’nize round if she was.”
Suddenly, at no particular street corner on Riverside Drive, just a street, he fled over to Broadway and the Subway. He had to be under the same roof with Nelly. If it were only possible to see her that night! But it was midnight. However, he formulated a plan. The next morning he would leave the office, find her at her department store, and make her go out to Manhattan Beach with him for dinner that night.
He was home. He went happily up the stairs. He would dream of Nelly, and—
Nelly’s door opened, and she peered out, drawing her peignoir about her.
“Oh,” she said, softly, “is it you?”
“Yes. My, you’re up late.”
“Do you—Are you all right?”
He dashed down the hall and stood shyly scratching at the straw of his newest hat.
“Why yes, Nelly, course. Poor—Oh, don’t tell me you have a headache again?”