The house was set in a valley at the foot of two hills. Through the mist
of the December afternoon, it had loomed pleasantly before him. The door
was ajar, and he stepped into a little hall covered with ingrain carpet.
To the right was the dining-room, the table covered with a white cloth, and
in its exact center an uncompromising bunch of dried flowers. To the left,
the typical parlor of such places. It might have been the parlor of the
White Springs Hotel in duplicate, plush self-rocker and all. Over
everything was silence and a pervading smell of fresh varnish. The house
was aggressive with new paint--the sagging old floors shone with it, the
doors gleamed.
"Hello!" called K.
There were slow footsteps upstairs, the closing of a bureau drawer, the
rustle of a woman's dress coming down the stairs. K., standing uncertainly
on a carpet oasis that was the center of the parlor varnish, stripped off
his sweater.
"Not very busy here this afternoon!" he said to the unseen female on the
staircase. Then he saw her. It was Tillie. She put a hand against the
doorframe to steady herself. Tillie surely, but a new Tillie! With her
hair loosened around her face, a fresh blue chintz dress open at the
throat, a black velvet bow on her breast, here was a Tillie fuller,
infinitely more attractive, than he had remembered her. But she did not
smile at him. There was something about her eyes not unlike the dog's
expression, submissive, but questioning.
"Well, you've found me, Mr. Le Moyne." And, when he held out his hand,
smiling: "I just had to do it, Mr. K."
"And how's everything going? You look mighty fine and--happy, Tillie."
"I'm all right. Mr. Schwitter's gone to the postoffice. He'll be back at
five. Will you have a cup of tea, or will you have something else?"
The instinct of the Street was still strong in Tillie. The Street did not
approve of "something else."
"Scotch-and-soda," said Le Moyne. "And shall I buy a ticket for you to
punch?"
But she only smiled faintly. He was sorry he had made the blunder.
Evidently the Street and all that pertained was a sore subject.
So this was Tillie's new home! It was for this that she had exchanged the
virginal integrity of her life at Mrs. McKee's--for this wind-swept little
house, tidily ugly, infinitely lonely. There were two crayon enlargements
over the mantel. One was Schwitter, evidently. The other was the
paper-doll wife. K. wondered what curious instinct of self-abnegation had
caused Tillie to leave the wife there undisturbed. Back of its position of
honor he saw the girl's realization of her own situation. On a wooden
shelf, exactly between the two pictures, was another vase of dried flowers.