“Why would you? What’s Mr. Adams doing to be so anxious about?”
Lohr’s expression became one of reserve, the look of a man who has found that when he speaks his inner thoughts his wife jumps too far to conclusions. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Of course any man starting up a new business is bound to be pretty nervous a while. He’ll be over here to-morrow evening, all right; you’ll see.”
The prediction was fulfilled: Adams arrived just after Mrs. Lohr had removed the dinner dishes to her “kitchenette”; but Lohr had little information to give his caller.
“He didn’t say a word, Virgil; nary a word. I took it into his office and handed it to him, and he just sat and read it; that’s all. I kind of stood around as long as I could, but he was sittin’ at his desk with his side to me, and he never turned around full toward me, as it were, so I couldn’t hardly even tell anything. All I know: he just read it.”
“Well, but see here,” Adams began, nervously. “Well–-“
“Well what, Virg?”
“Well, but what did he say when he DID speak?”
“He didn’t speak. Not so long I was in there, anyhow. He just sat there and read it. Read kind of slow. Then, when he came to the end, he turned back and started to read it all over again. By that time there was three or four other men standin’ around in the office waitin’ to speak to him, and I had to go.”
Adams sighed, and stared at the floor, irresolute. “Well, I’ll be getting along back home then, I guess, Charley. So you’re sure you couldn’t tell anything what he might have thought about it, then?”
“Not a thing in the world. I’ve told you all I know, Virg.”
“I guess so, I guess so,” Adams said, mournfully. “I feel mighty obliged to you, Charley Lohr; mighty obliged. Good-night to you.” And he departed, sighing in perplexity.
On his way home, preoccupied with many thoughts, he walked so slowly that once or twice he stopped and stood motionless for a few moments, without being aware of it; and when he reached the juncture of the sidewalk with the short brick path that led to his own front door, he stopped again, and stood for more than a minute. “Ah, I wish I knew,” he whispered, plaintively. “I do wish I knew what he thought about it.”
He was roused by a laugh that came lightly from the little veranda near by. “Papa!” Alice called gaily. “What are you standing there muttering to yourself about?”
“Oh, are you there, dearie?” he said, and came up the path. A tall figure rose from a chair on the veranda.
“Papa, this is Mr. Russell.”
The two men shook hands, Adams saying, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” as they looked at each other in the faint light diffused through the opaque glass in the upper part of the door. Adams’s impression was of a strong and tall young man, fashionable but gentle; and Russell’s was of a dried, little old business man with a grizzled moustache, worried bright eyes, shapeless dark clothes, and a homely manner.
“Nice evening,” Adams said further, as their hands parted. “Nice time o’ year it is, but we don’t always have as good weather as this; that’s the trouble of it. Well–-” He went to the door. “Well—I bid you good evening,” he said, and retired within the house.
Alice laughed. “He’s the old-fashionedest man in town, I suppose and frightfully impressed with you, I could see!”
“What nonsense!” said Russell. “How could anybody be impressed with me?”
“Why not? Because you’re quiet? Good gracious! Don’t you know that you’re the most impressive sort? We chatterers spend all our time playing to you quiet people.”
“Yes; we’re only the audience.”
“‘Only!’” she echoed. “Why, we live for you, and we can’t live without you.”
“I wish you couldn’t,” said Russell. “That would be a new experience for both of us, wouldn’t it?”
“It might be a rather bleak one for me,” she answered, lightly. “I’m afraid I’ll miss these summer evenings with you when they’re over. I’ll miss them enough, thanks!”
“Do they have to be over some time?” he asked.
“Oh, everything’s over some time, isn’t it?”
Russell laughed at her. “Don’t let’s look so far ahead as that,” he said. “We don’t need to be already thinking of the cemetery, do we?”
“I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Our summer evenings will be over before then, Mr. Russell.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Good heavens!” she said. “THERE’S laconic eloquence: almost a proposal in a single word! Never mind, I shan’t hold you to it. But to answer you: well, I’m always looking ahead, and somehow I usually see about how things are coming out.”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose most of us do; at least it seems as if we did, because we so seldom feel surprised by the way they do come out. But maybe that’s only because life isn’t like a play in a theatre, and most things come about so gradually we get used to them.”
“No, I’m sure I can see quite a long way ahead,” she insisted, gravely. “And it doesn’t seem to me as if our summer evenings could last very long. Something’ll interfere—somebody will, I mean—they’ll SAY something–-“
“What if they do?”
She moved her shoulders in a little apprehensive shiver. “It’ll change you,” she said. “I’m just sure something spiteful’s going to happen to me. You’ll feel differently about—things.”
