Clarinda stood for a second in the middle of the room and then walked slowly over to the window and looked pensively down upon the street. She wondered if, in all her existence the maid had only dusted and swept, if in all her existence she had ever worked for anyone who was as unhappy as she was.
All during the day Clarinda did not smile, but wandered aimlessly from one part of the apartment to the other, and she took no interest in the maid nor in the fixing of things for the home-coming of the man. But this day went like all the others—it glided by with a total indifference to her or her unfortunate position.
Six o’clock came. The day’s work for many was over. As the clock on the mantel chimed out the hour, the lower entrance door to the house opened and then shut with a bang, and the man came bounding up the stairs with the same haste he had always come. He threw the apartment door open and launched his body into the room. His face was covered with smiles. He was just as wonderful, just as strong as when he had gone from her in the morning. Clarinda wondered that this could be so.
Clarinda looked at him and sighed. Her heart beat painfully, and her breath came in deep short gasps. No, he did not kiss her. As he stopped in the middle of the room and looked about him she went over to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. He still smiled.
“You forgot something this morning,” she said slowly as she looked up into his face.
A quizzical expression went over him. He did not appreciate her sorrow.
“What?” he asked after quite a while.
“You don’t know?” she asked with astonishment.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Was it my overshoes or my coat?” The man jested with her, which added to the pain she had suffered during the day.
“The maid knows—Peter.”