to meet her. "Are you ready for luncheon?" he asked.
"When did you come in? There's been a man here looking for you. He left word that he'd be back at two."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you. Mrs. McGahn said she thought he said his name was 'Pitty.'"
"Oh." His voice went flat. "It must 've been Bert Pittsey."
"What did Mr. Kidder say?"
"He'll have a place for me next week, all right. There's no difficulty about that. We must find something for you, now. We'll talk it over at luncheon."
"We'll do no such thing," she said. "I'm not going to have you worried about me. I have a plan of my own. I'm going to see someone this afternoon."
"What is it?"
"I'll not tell you. If you ask me another word about it, I'll have my lunch alone."
"Then I'll not tell you about Kidder," he said, with a desperate affectation of gaiety.
He felt like a man who has just learned that he is incurably ill of a fatal disease, and who returns home to deceive his family so that they may be spared at least a few weeks of useless grief. He knew that such luncheons as this were numbered; and with the recklessness of the condemned he coaxed her to have a table d'hôte dinner with him at his French restaurant. "You'll feel the need of it before the afternoon's done," he said.
