Dicky and Mr. Naidu were in the street. It was too late for the bank, but the son of the trowel makers found a friend of the family with currency. A rainy dusk in Twenty-third Street near the Avenue, when he took Mr. Naidu’s hand, having turned over the money.
“I have your address, I may hunt you up. You won’t forget The Public Square, when you have another story as good as this?”
“Oh, no,” said the Hindu, “nor you, Mr. Cobden. Good-by.”
Dicky turned to look after him. He reflected that he hadn’t even learned if Mr. Naidu were hungry. He wished he had given him his umbrella. He felt a curious desire to follow; a sense vague, as yet, that his way, the way of his Big Story, lay after the Oriental, and not back toward the office.
III
A FISH OMELET
SNOW had drifted into the outer basement stairway of the green house, and there was a thin frosty bar inside the door of the basement hall. Miss Claes opened the door and looked out through the iron railings to the street. Snow was six inches deep and still falling. She took a deep breath appreciatively, as if she found some faint exquisite scent in the cold air. Presently she began sweeping at the doorway, and continued up the stone steps to the walk. Her arms and throat were bare, and the dark gray dress that she wore was of wool but the fabric very thin. Apparently Miss Claes chose to enjoy the chill of the winter morning. When she returned to her living room, the fire in the grate had been started and a small cup of black coffee was on the table. She sipped thoughtfully and then lit a cigarette, which she half finished, standing by the fireplace.
The kindling had ignited the soft coal, but not without having shot out a spray of cinders over the cement hearth. Miss Claes swept the hearth unhurriedly. A cabinet of dishes across the room from the fireplace was full of color now from the light of the coals—vivid greens and bronzes, pomegranate reds. At length, she opened the door to the kitchen, where an Oriental stood by the big range.
“May I serve your breakfast?” he asked.
“Put it on a tray with something for Pidge. I’ll take it upstairs and perhaps she’ll join me. The child starves.”
“Not in this house——”