"Christine shall come, then," said Sidney forsooth, "and we will throw out

a balcony."

So they planned, calmly ignorant that poor Christine's story and Tillie's

and Johnny Rosenfeld's and all the others' were already written among the

things that are, and the things that shall be hereafter.

"You are very good to me," said Sidney.

When she rose, K. Le Moyne sprang to his feet.

Anna had noticed that he always rose when she entered his room,--with fresh

towels on Katie's day out, for instance,--and she liked him for it. Years

ago, the men she had known had shown this courtesy to their women; but the


Street regarded such things as affectation.

"I wonder if you would do me another favor? I'm afraid you'll take to

avoiding me, if I keep on."

"I don't think you need fear that."

"This stupid story about Joe Drummond--I'm not saying I'll never marry him,

but I'm certainly not engaged. Now and then, when you are taking your

evening walks, if you would ask me to walk with you--"

K. looked rather dazed.

"I can't imagine anything pleasanter; but I wish you'd explain just how--"

Sidney smiled at him. As he stood on the lowest step, their eyes were

almost level.

"If I walk with you, they'll know I'm not engaged to Joe," she said, with

engaging directness.

The house was quiet. He waited in the lower hall until she had reached the

top of the staircase. For some curious reason, in the time to come, that

was the way Sidney always remembered K. Le Moyne--standing in the little

hall, one hand upstretched to shut off the gas overhead, and his eyes on

hers above.

"Good-night," said K. Le Moyne. And all the things he had put out of his

life were in his voice.

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