CHAPTER X
On Monday morning, shortly after the McKee prolonged breakfast was over, a small man of perhaps fifty, with iron-gray hair and a sparse goatee, made his way along the Street. He moved with the air of one having a definite destination but a by no means definite reception.
As he walked along he eyed with a professional glance the ailanthus and maple trees which, with an occasional poplar, lined the Street. At the door of Mrs. McKee’s boarding-house he stopped. Owing to a slight change in the grade of the street, the McKee house had no stoop, but one flat doorstep. Thus it was possible to ring the doorbell from the pavement, and this the stranger did. It gave him a curious appearance of being ready to cut and run if things were unfavorable.
For a moment things were indeed unfavorable. Mrs. McKee herself opened the door. She recognized him at once, but no smile met the nervous one that formed itself on the stranger’s face.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?”
“It’s me, Mrs. McKee.”
“Well?”
He made a conciliatory effort.
“I was thinking, as I came along,” he said, “that you and the neighbors had better get after these here caterpillars. Look at them maples, now.”
“If you want to see Tillie, she’s busy.”
“I only want to say how-d ‘ye-do. I’m just on my way through town.”
“I’ll say it for you.”
A certain doggedness took the place of his tentative smile.
“I’ll say it to myself, I guess. I don’t want any unpleasantness, but I’ve come a good ways to see her and I’ll hang around until I do.”
Mrs. McKee knew herself routed, and retreated to the kitchen.
“You’re wanted out front,” she said.
“Who is it?”
“Never mind. Only, my advice to you is, don’t be a fool.”
Tillie went suddenly pale. The hands with which she tied a white apron over her gingham one were shaking.
Her visitor had accepted the open door as permission to enter and was standing in the hall.
He went rather white himself when he saw Tillie coming toward him down the hall. He knew that for Tillie this visit would mean that he was free—and he was not free. Sheer terror of his errand filled him.
“Well, here I am, Tillie.”
“All dressed up and highly perfumed!” said poor Tillie, with the question in her eyes. “You’re quite a stranger, Mr. Schwitter.”
“I was passing through, and I just thought I’d call around and tell you—My God, Tillie, I’m glad to see you!”
She made no reply, but opened the door into the cool and, shaded little parlor. He followed her in and closed the door behind him.
“I couldn’t help it. I know I promised.”
“Then she—?”
“She’s still living. Playing with paper dolls—that’s the latest.”
Tillie sat down suddenly on one of the stiff chairs. Her lips were as white as her face.
“I thought, when I saw you—”
“I was afraid you’d think that.”
Neither spoke for a moment. Tillie’s hands twisted nervously in her lap. Mr. Schwitter’s eyes were fixed on the window, which looked back on the McKee yard.
“That spiraea back there’s not looking very good. If you’ll save the cigar butts around here and put them in water, and spray it, you’ll kill the lice.”
Tillie found speech at last.
“I don’t know why you come around bothering me,” she said dully. “I’ve been getting along all right; now you come and upset everything.”
Mr. Schwitter rose and took a step toward her.
“Well, I’ll tell you why I came. Look at me. I ain’t getting any younger, am I? Time’s going on, and I’m wanting you all the time. And what am I getting? What’ve I got out of life, anyhow? I’m lonely, Tillie!”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“You’re lonely, too, ain’t you?”
“Me? I haven’t got time to be. And, anyhow, there’s always a crowd here.”
