He prepared to wait at the door, but she came back at once, in a flutter, to invite him into the parlor. She asked him, with an apologetic warmth, to be seated. He nodded but he did not speak.
He put his box of candies on the center-table and covered it with his hat. There was a pink plush photograph album under his hand, with a scroll of gilt lettering on the cover, and he stood tracing out the design on it, with a fascinated forefinger, until he heard a swish of skirts and a patter of quick steps in the adjoining room. He looked up to see the girl stop short between the gaudy hangings of the doorway. Her lips—that had been ready in a little simper of welcome—parted in a gape of surprise; her hands—that had been smoothing the shoulders of her pink-beribboned dressing jacket—caught at the curtains; and she remained held there, as if she did not intend to enter until he had explained himself.
She was a small girl, with a head of coquettish black hair, and she wore one artful ringlet hanging down in the middle of her forehead with the air of a stage soubrette. He fastened his gaze on it while he spoke.
"We heard 't yuh were sick—from one o' the girls. I was—I was goin' past here, an' I thought I 'd drop in an' see how yuh were comin' on."
"Oh!" she said, with an affectation of recognizing him for the first time; "you 're Mr. Rattray's frien'?"
He nodded. "Pipp was astin' about yuh from the red-headed girl. We been goin' to your place at the lunch counter right along."
