K. had taken Christine to see Tillie that Sunday afternoon. Palmer had the

car out--had, indeed, not been home since the morning of the previous day.

He played golf every Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the Country Club, and

invariably spent the night there. So K. and Christine walked from the end

of the trolley line, saying little, but under K.'s keen direction finding

bright birds in the hedgerows, hidden field flowers, a dozen wonders of the

country that Christine had never dreamed of.

The interview with Tillie had been a disappointment to K. Christine, with

the best and kindliest intentions, struck a wrong note. In her endeavor to

cover the fact that everything in Tillie's world was wrong, she fell into

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the error of pretending that everything was right.

Tillie, grotesque of figure and tragic-eyed, listened to her patiently,

while K. stood, uneasy and uncomfortable, in the wide door of the hay-barn

and watched automobiles turning in from the road. When Christine rose to

leave, she confessed her failure frankly.

"I've meant well, Tillie," she said. "I'm afraid I've said exactly what I

shouldn't. I can only think that, no matter what is wrong, two wonderful

pieces of luck have come to you. Your husband--that is, Mr.

Schwitter--cares for you,--you admit that,--and you are going to have a

child."

Tillie's pale eyes filled.

"I used to be a good woman, Mrs. Howe," she said simply. "Now I'm not.

When I look in that glass at myself, and call myself what I am, I'd give a

good bit to be back on the Street again."

She found opportunity for a word with K. while Christine went ahead of him

out of the barn.

"I've been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Le Moyne." She lowered her voice.

"Joe Drummond's been coming out here pretty regular. Schwitter says he's

drinking a little. He don't like him loafing around here: he sent him home

last Sunday. What's come over the boy?"

"I'll talk to him."

"The barkeeper says he carries a revolver around, and talks wild. I thought

maybe Sidney Page could do something with him."

"I think he'd not like her to know. I'll do what I can."

K.'s face was thoughtful as he followed Christine to the road.

Christine was very silent, on the way back to the city. More than once K.

found her eyes fixed on him, and it puzzled him. Poor Christine was only

trying to fit him into the world she knew--a world whose men were strong

but seldom tender, who gave up their Sundays to golf, not to visiting

unhappy outcasts in the country. How masculine he was, and yet how gentle!

It gave her a choking feeling in her throat. She took advantage of a steep

bit of road to stop and stand a moment, her fingers on his shabby gray

sleeve.




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