Hamilton walked leisurely up Broadway, his chest high and his shoulders still squared by custom. The civilians, dodging about, looked pale, round-shouldered and nervous. He peered upward at the tall buildings and felt a glow of pride. He stopped at a cigar store to light a cigarette, watched the men throwing dice, and envied their freedom. It must be splendid not to have to stand reveille, not to have to stand retreat, not to have to eat at a certain hour, not to have to stand or do anything unless one wished to. How happy they must be. Then he suddenly realized that he was one of them, and that though still in uniform he was just as free. He stuck a hand in his pocket in defiance of old military etiquette and in a burst of new-found freedom, thought better of it, withdrew it and walked on.
Hamilton wished he had waited for the noon train and come down with some of the other officers of his regiment. Wandering about New York alone was too big a task for one man. There were so many thoughts he wished to express, so many ideas to exchange. He wondered what McCall would think about the men and women he passed on the streets—the clerks, the girls with short skirts borrowed from the French, the women who smiled because one was in uniform, the business men who looked away for the same reason, the messenger boys, whose admiration and hero worship had outlived the armistice.
Why had he come alone at the last minute? He had planned to come at noon—had practically slipped away from camp. His mind reverted to Dorothy, although he had decided not to see her. Dorothy would be surprised to see him and probably chagrined that it was not McCall. Why had not McCall told him anything about the poem or the snapshot? Still, why should he?
Perhaps after all there was no more between them than between himself and her. McCall was on his way back to Chicago. Perhaps he had called on Dorothy while waiting for his train. Had he come alone to New York in order to be able to spend more time with Dorothy?
No, he would not see her. He would not see her. First, because of the emotional character of their farewell in Paris. In a sentimental vein he might again commit the same kind of folly. She might misconstrue his avowal of friendship for something deeper. Secondly, he would not see her because McCall had written that poem to her. He was not jealous. A ridiculous idea.
He reached the office building in which the Hamilton Company was located and rode up in the elevator to his floor. He walked to the end of the corridor and was turning the knob of the door when he noticed that the lettering was changed. He stepped back, looked about in bewilderment and finally entered. Yes, the office was differently arranged and there was a strange stenographer at the information desk. He had been here too often to mistake the number; still, if they had moved, his father would undoubtedly have told him something about it.
“Could you please tell me where the Hamilton Company is located?” he asked.
The stenographer, fluffy brown-haired and brown-eyed, looked up, smiled and showed a row of white teeth.
“I don’t know. Been here only a month, but the elevator man might know.”
She looked a moment at his uniform.