The cot had appeared there in the back of the music-store, behind a dark sateen curtain with too few rings on the wire. How little else was in there, nobody knew. But those passing in the late evening saw the blur of his kerosene lamp behind that curtain and were smitten by a realistic illusion of personal loneliness.
It was behind that curtain that these unreasoning questions usually attacked him, when his giant, wavering shadow had died upon the wall and the faint smell of the extinguished lamp went with him to his bed; or when he waked before any sign of dawn. In the mornings all was cheerful and wonted—the question had not before attacked him among his red and blue plush spreads, his golden oak and ebony cases, of a sunshiny morning.
A step at his door set him flying. He wanted passionately to sell a piano.
"Well!" he cried, when he saw his visitor.
It was Lulu, in her dark red suit and her tilted hat.
"Well!" she also said, and seemed to have no idea of saying anything else. Her excitement was so obscure that he did not discern it.
"You're out early," said he, participating in the village chorus of this bright challenge at this hour.
"Oh, no," said Lulu.
He looked out the window, pretending to be caught by something passing, leaned to see it the better.
"Oh, how'd you get along last night?" he asked, and wondered why he had not thought to say it before.