He sat motionless on the steps of Mrs. Quinlan’s, and his patience was rewarded when after a few moments the Brunell’s door re-opened and he heard the girl’s voice calling anxiously: “Kitty! Kitty!”
Morrow rose with unfeigned alacrity and crossing the road, opened the little gate without ceremony and mounted the steps of the porch.
“I beg your pardon,” he said blandly. “Is this your kitten? It––er––wandered across the street to 65 me and fell asleep under my coat. I board just over the way, you know, with Mrs. Quinlan. My name is Morrow.”
The girl gave a little cry of relieved anxiety, and caught the kitten in her arms.
“Oh, I am so glad! I was afraid it was lost, and it is so tiny and defenseless to be out all alone in the cold and darkness. Thank you so much, Mr. Morrow. I suppose it was waiting for me, as it usually does, and grew restless at my delay, poor little thing! It was kind of you to comfort it!”
Feeling like an utter brute, Morrow stammered a humble disclaimer of her undeserved gratitude, and moved toward the steps.
“Oh, but it was really kind of you; most men hate cats, although my father loves them. I should have been home much earlier but I was detained by some extra work at the club where I am employed.”
“The club?” he repeated stupidly.
“Yes,” replied the girl, quietly, cuddling the kitten beneath her chin. “The Anita Lawton Club for Working Girls.”
She caught herself up sharply, even as she spoke, and a look almost of apprehension crossed her ingenuous face for a moment, and was gone.