“Miss Hackbutt?” repeated the widow in a smothered voice. “Miss——” She got up and began to pace the room again.
“He must be blind,” said Mr. Tucker, positively.
Mrs. Bowman stopped suddenly and stood regarding him. There was a light in her eye which made him feel anything but comfortable. He was glad when she transferred her gaze to the clock. She looked at it so long that he murmured something about going.
“Good-by,” she said.
Mr. Tucker began to repeat his excuses, but she interrupted him. “Not now,” she said, decidedly. “I'm tired. Good-night.”
Mr. Tucker pressed her hand. “Good-night,” he said, tenderly. “I am afraid the excitement has been too much for you. May I come round at the usual time to-morrow?”
“Yes,” said the widow.
She took the advertisement from the table and, folding it carefully, placed it in her purse. Mr. Tucker withdrew as she looked up.
He walked back to the “George” deep in thought, and over a couple of pipes in bed thought over the events of the evening. He fell asleep at last and dreamed that he and Miss Hackbutt were being united in the bonds of holy matrimony by the Rev. Nathaniel Clark.
The vague misgivings of the previous night disappeared in the morning sunshine. He shaved carefully and spent some time in the selection of a tie. Over an excellent breakfast he arranged further explanations and excuses for the appeasement of Mrs. Bowman.