"I was afraid I had offended you or displeased you," she said. "I'm so glad
it isn't so."
Carlotta shivered under her hand.
Things were not going any too well with K. True, he had received his
promotion at the office, and with this present affluence of twenty-two
dollars a week he was able to do several things. Mrs. Rosenfeld now washed
and ironed one day a week at the little house, so that Katie might have
more time to look after Anna. He had increased also the amount of money
that he periodically sent East.
So far, well enough. The thing that rankled and filled him with a sense of
failure was Max Wilson's attitude. It was not unfriendly; it was, indeed,
consistently respectful, almost reverential. But he clearly considered Le
Moyne's position absurd.
There was no true comradeship between the two men; but there was beginning
to be constant association, and lately a certain amount of friction. They
thought differently about almost everything.
Wilson began to bring all his problems to Le Moyne. There were long
consultations in that small upper room. Perhaps more than one man or woman
who did not know of K.'s existence owed his life to him that fall.
Under K.'s direction, Max did marvels. Cases began to come in to him from
the surrounding towns. To his own daring was added a new and remarkable
technique. But Le Moyne, who had found resignation if not content, was
once again in touch with the work he loved. There were times when, having
thrashed a case out together and outlined the next day's work for Max, he
would walk for hours into the night out over the hills, fighting his
battle. The longing was on him to be in the thick of things again. The
thought of the gas office and its deadly round sickened him.
It was on one of his long walks that K. found Tillie.
It was December then, gray and raw, with a wet snow that changed to rain as
it fell. The country roads were ankle-deep with mud, the wayside paths
thick with sodden leaves. The dreariness of the countryside that Saturday
afternoon suited his mood. He had ridden to the end of the street-car
line, and started his walk from there. As was his custom, he wore no
overcoat, but a short sweater under his coat. Somewhere along the road he
had picked up a mongrel dog, and, as if in sheer desire for human society,
it trotted companionably at his heels.
Seven miles from the end of the car line he found a road-house, and stopped
in for a glass of Scotch. He was chilled through. The dog went in with
him, and stood looking up into his face. It was as if he submitted, but
wondered why this indoors, with the scents of the road ahead and the trails
of rabbits over the fields.