“In New York, in that café, you recited it. You said something about a girl you had met in France and whom you’d never see again.”
“I was drinking, Ham, wasn’t I? And I’ve met several girls in France, have I not? And why should I say I’d never see Miss Meadows again? You know she lives in Chicago. Especially if I loved her. You act as though you were jealous. I simply said that because I was a trifle drunk and because I thought it would give the poem a better setting.”
Now it all seemed perfectly absurd. Of course, McCall would see Dorothy again. They both lived in Chicago. And—well, it was simply inexplainable. For the first time he realized how much he had been thinking of Dorothy. How often some incident associated with their brief acquaintance had flashed through his mind, only to be suppressed. On the way to Chicago, he had kept thinking of her, had seen her image in the clouds and in the trees. Everywhere Dorothy. Dorothy. Dorothy. But then—
“I suppose you don’t know—” McCall began when the clerk at the desk began calling his name. The colored waiter hurried up.
“I guess it’s de Times wants you,” he said.
McCall excused himself and hurried to the phone. Robert stared at the plate.
“Anything else, sir?” asked the waiter.
McCall rushed back.
“Off on a big story!” he cried. “May be gone a few days. I’ll call you when I come back. Take your time about finishing. It’s charged to my account.”
He signed his name to the slip.