BUT it chanced that Norman met her in the street about an hour after Tetlow's call.
He was on the way to lunch at the Lawyer's Club --one of those apparent luxuries that are the dire and pitiful necessities of men in New York fighting to maintain the semblance and the reputation of prosperity.
It must not be imagined by those who are here let into Norman's inmost secrets that his appearance betrayed the depth to which he had fallen. At least to the casual eye he seemed the same rich and powerful personage.
An expert might have got at a good part of the truth from his somber eyes and haggard face, from the subtle transformation of the former look of serene pride into the bravado of pretense. And as, in a general way, the facts of his fall were known far and wide, all his acquaintances understood that his seeming of undiminished success was simply the familiar "bluff." Its advantage to him with them lay in its raising a doubt as to just what degree of disaster it hid--no small advantage.
Nor was this "bluff" altogether for the benefit of the outside world. It made his fall less hideously intolerable to himself. In the bottom of his heart he knew that when drink and no money should finally force him to release his relaxing hold upon his fashionable clubs, upon luxurious attire and habits, he would suddenly and with accelerated speed drop into the abyss--We have all caught glimpses of that abyss--frayed fine linen cheaply laundered, a tie of one time smartness showing signs of too long wear, a suit from the best kind of tailor with shiny spot glistening here, patch peeping there, a queer unkemptness about the hair and skin--these the beginnings of a road that leads straight and short to the barrel-house, the park bench, and the police station. Because, when a man strikes into that stretch of the road to perdition, he ceases to be one of our friends, passes from view entirely, we have the habit of SAYING that such things rarely if ever happen. But we KNOW better. Many's the man now high who has had the sort of drop Norman was taking. We remember when he was making a bluff such as Norman was making in those days; but we think now that we were mistaken in having suspected it of being bluff.
Norman, dressed with more than ordinary care--how sensitive a man becomes about those things when there is neither rustle nor jingle in his pockets, and his smallest check would be returned with the big black stamp "No Funds"-- Norman, groomed to the last button, was in Broadway near Rector Street. Ahead of him he saw the figure of a girl--a trim, attractive figure, slim and charmingly long of line. A second glance, and he recognized her. What was the change that had prevented his recognizing her at once? He had not seen that particular lightish-blue dress before --nor the coquettish harmonizing hat. But that was not the reason. No, it was the coquetry in her toilet--the effort of the girl to draw attention to her charms by such small devices as are within the reach of extremely modest means. He did not like this change.
It offended his taste; it alarmed his jealousy.
He quickened his step, and when almost at her side spoke her name--"Miss Hallowell."
She stopped, turned. As soon as she recognized him there came into her quiet, lovely face a delightful smile. He could not conceal his amazement. She was glad to see him! Instantly, following the invariable habit of an experienced analytical mind, he wondered for what unflattering reason this young woman who did not like him was no longer showing it, was seeming more than a little pleased to see him. "Why, how d'ye do, Mr. Norman?" said she. And her friendliness and assurance of manner jarred upon him. There was not a suggestion of forwardness; but he, used to her old-time extreme reserve, felt precisely as if she were bold and gaudy, after the fashion of so many of the working girls who were popular with the men.
This unfavorable impression disappeared--or, rather, retired to the background--even as it became definite. And once more he was seeing the charms of physical loveliness, of physical--and moral, and mental--mystery that had a weird power over him. As they shook hands, a quiver shot through him as at the shock of a terrific stimulant; and he stood there longing to take her in his arms, to feel the delicate yet perfect and vividly vital life of that fascinating form--longing to kiss that sensitive, slightly pouted rosy mouth, to try to make those clear eyes grow soft and dreamy----She was saying: "I've been wondering what had become of you."
"I saw Tetlow," he said. "He promised to send me your address."
At Tetlow's name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flitted into her eyes. "Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid! How sick I got of him!"
Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred. "Why?" he asked.
"Always warning me against everybody. Always giving me advice. It was too tiresome. And at last he began to criticize me--the way I dressed--the way I talked--said I was getting too free in my manner.
The impudence of him!"
Norman tried to smile.
"He'd have liked me to stay a silly little mouse forever."
"So you've been--blossoming out?" said Norman.
"In a quiet way," replied she, with a smile of self-content, so lovely as a smile that no one would have minded its frank egotism. "There isn't much chance for fun--unless a girl goes too far. But at the same time I don't intend life to be Sunday when it isn't work.
I got very cross with him--Mr. Tetlow, I mean. And I took another position. It didn't pay quite so well--only fifteen a week. But I couldn't stand being watched--and guyed by all the other girls and boys for it."
"Where are you working?"
"With an old lawyer named Branscombe. It's awful slow, as I'm the only one, and he's old and does everything in an old-fashioned way. But the hours are easy, and I don't have to get down till nine--which is nice when you've been out at a dance the night before."
Norman kept his eyes down to hide from her the legion of devils of jealousy. "You HAVE changed," he said.
