Elbert was waiting in the reception room of the Finishing School. It was the summer season and only a few of the girls were staying over—those whose families did not live in Tucson, possibly. The place was shaded and flowery; blossoms on all the tables, and one great basket, shaped like a French hat of an old day, on the piano, filled with young pink roses. He heard laughter and whispering in the hallway. It wasn’t exactly clear to him what he must say or do. He felt his wound right now, a sort of general breakdown. The door he was looking toward—the direction the voices came from—didn’t open. Her step sounded from behind. He saw her first among the vines at the window, facing the porch. Her lips moved, her hand lifted, the door opened, but everything was stiller than one could imagine.
‘I would have known you—’
‘Of course—’
‘It’s probably because I saw you before—I mean before dark that night—’
He felt a vague surprise in himself that he caught the drift so readily. ‘At the barefooted woman’s—’ he finished.
‘Yes—’
‘It was different, after supper that night,’ she went on, ‘but I’m glad I would have known you, as you are to-day. Reading the papers was so confusing.’
‘They never know when to stop.’
‘They didn’t tell it nearly all, either—’
‘What do you mean?’