Susan meekly submitted; she was once more reminded that she was an outcast, one for whom the respectable world had no place.He made some sort of reply to her question, in the tone the usher of a fashionable church would use to a stranger obviously not in the same set as the habitues.She heard the tone, but not the words; she turned away to seek the street again.She wandered on--through the labyrinth of streets, through the crowds on crowds of strangers.
Ten dollars a week! She knew little about wages, but enough to realize the hopelessness of her quest.Ten dollars a week--and her own keep beside.The faces of the crowds pushing past her and jostling her made her heartsick.So much sickness, and harassment, and discontent--so much unhappiness! Surely all these sad hearts ought to be kind to each other.Yet they were not; each soul went selfishly alone, thinking only of its own burden.
She walked on and on, thinking, in this disconnected way characteristic of a good intelligence that has not yet developed order and sequence, a theory of life and a purpose.It had always been her habit to walk about rather than to sit, whether indoors or out.She could think better when in motion physically.When she was so tired that she began to feel weak, she saw a shaded square, with benches under the trees.She entered, sat down to rest.She might apply to the young doctor.
But, no.He was poor--and what chance was there of her ever making the money to pay back? No, she could not take alms; than alms there was no lower way of getting money.She might return to Mr.Blynn and accept his offer.The man in all his physical horror rose before her.No, she could not do that.At least, not yet.She could entertain the idea as a possibility now.She remembered her wedding--the afternoon, the night.Yes, Blynn's offer involved nothing so horrible as that--and she had lived through that.It would be cowardice, treachery, to shrink from anything that should prove necessary in doing the square thing by the man who had done so much for her.She had said she would die for Burlingham; she owed even that to him, if her death would help him.Had she then meant nothing but mere lying words of pretended gratitude? But Blynn was always there; something else might turn up, and her dollar and eighty cents would last another day or so, and the ten dollars were not due for six days.No, she would not go to Blynn; she would wait, would take his advice--"think it over."A man was walking up and down the shaded alley, passing and repassing the bench where she sat.She observed him, saw that he was watching her.He was a young man--a very young man--of middle height, strongly built.He had crisp, short dark hair, a darkish skin, amiable blue-gray eyes, pleasing features.She decided that he was of good family, was home from some college on vacation.He was wearing a silk shirt, striped flannel trousers, a thin serge coat of an attractive shade of blue.She liked his looks, liked the way he dressed.It pleased her that such a man should be interested in her; he had a frank and friendly air, and her sad young heart was horribly lonely.She pretended not to notice him; but after a while he walked up to her, lifting his straw hat.
"Good afternoon," said he.When he showed his strong sharp teeth in an amiable smile, she thought of Sam Wright--only this man was not weak and mean looking, like her last and truest memory picture of Sam--indeed, the only one she had not lost.
"Good afternoon," replied she politely.For in spite of Burlingham's explanations and cautionings she was still the small-town girl, unsuspicious toward courtesy from strange men.
Also, she longed for someone to talk with.It had been weeks since she had talked with anyone nearer than Burlingham to her own age and breeding.
"Won't you have lunch with me?" he asked."I hate to eat alone."She, faint from hunger, simply could not help obvious hesitation before saying, "I don't think I care for any.""You haven't had yours--have you?"
"No."
"May I sit down?"
She moved along the bench to indicate that he might, without definitely committing herself.
He sat, took off his hat.He had a clean, fresh look about the neck that pleased her.She was weary of seeing grimy, sweaty people, and of smelling them.Also, except the young doctor, since Roderick Spenser left her at Carrolltown she had talked with no one of her own age and class--the class in which she had been brought up, the class that, after making her one of itself, had cast her out forever with its mark of shame upon her.Its mark of shame--burning and stinging again as she sat beside this young man!
"You're sad about something?" suggested he, himself nearly as embarrassed as she.
"My friend's ill.He's got typhoid."
"That is bad.But he'll get all right.They always cure typhoid, nowadays--if it's taken in time and the nursing's good.
Everything depends on the nursing.I had it a couple of years ago, and pulled through easily."Susan brightened.He spoke so confidently that the appeal to her young credulity toward good news and the hopeful, cheerful thing was irresistible."Oh, yes--he'll be over it soon," the young man went on, "especially if he's in a hospital where they've got the facilities for taking care of sick people.Where is he?""In the hospital--up that way." She moved her head vaguely in the direction of the northwest.
"Oh, yes.It's a good one--for the pay patients.I suppose for the poor devils that can't pay"--he glanced with careless sympathy at the dozen or so tramps on benches nearby--"it's like all the rest of 'em--like the whole world, for that matter.It must be awful not to have money enough to get on with, I mean.
I'm talking about men." He smiled cheerfully."With a woman--if she's pretty--it's different, of course."The girl was so agitated that she did not notice the sly, if shy, hint in the remark and its accompanying glance.Said she:
"But it's a good hospital if you pay?"
