Carney, her mind was not romantic, and she had been using it all day.
She had repented of leaving him, the night before, as soon as she had irrevocably paid her street-car fare; and she had hurried down to her work, that morning, expecting to find him at Sturm & Bergman's side door. When he had not appeared at luncheon hour, she had been so worried that she had not been able to eat; and the afternoon's parade in fall costumes, with the thermometer at 86°, had worn her weak. At six o'clock she came out, desperately resolved to inquire for him at his rooms. And he was at the corner to greet her with a smile that, in the circumstances, was idiotic.
His explanations were irritatingly incomplete and incoherent. It exasperated her still more to find that her bad temper could not chafe a geniality in him that had no adequate cause apparent. She was peevish with hunger. She wanted her dinner at once. She insisted that there was no sort of sense in going to look at flats before they ate.
But just this one, Carney said. They could get their dinner right near it.
She would have left him again, but her day's experience had made her wise. She yielded at last in a sulky exhaustion, unable to argue with a man who did nothing but grin. They had to stand in the street-car. She mounted the four flights of stairs to the flat with her jaw set on a determination to disappoint the eager assurance with which he led the way.
He unlocked the parlor door and ushered her in.
