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.

Tillie brought the Scotch, already mixed, in a tall glass. K. would
have preferred to mix it himself, but the Scotch was good. He felt a new
respect for Mr. Schwitter.

"You gave me a turn at first," said Tillie. "But I am right glad to see
you, Mr. Le Moyne. Now that the roads are bad, nobody comes very much.
It's lonely."

Until now, K. and Tillie, when they met, had met conversationally on the
common ground of food. They no longer had that, and between them both
lay like a barrier their last conversation.

"Are you happy, Tillie?" said K. suddenly.

"I expected you'd ask me that. I've been thinking what to say."

Her reply set him watching her face. More attractive it certainly was,
but happy? There