“Extend the time,” said Hetty. “This is a big town. Think of how many girls he might have to see soaked in water with their hair down before he would recognize you. The stew’s getting on fine—but oh, for an onion! I’d even use a piece of garlic if I had it.”
The beef and potatoes bubbled merrily, exhaling a mouth-watering savor that yet lacked something, leaving a hunger on the palate, a haunting, wistful desire for some lost and needful ingredient.
“I came near drowning in that awful river,” said Cecilia, shuddering.
“It ought to have more water in it,” said Hetty; “the stew, I mean. I’ll go get some at the sink.”
“It smells good,” said the artist.
“That nasty old North River?” objected Hetty. “It smells to me like soap factories and wet setter-dogs—oh, you mean the stew. Well, I wish we had an onion for it. Did he look like he had money?”
“First, he looked kind,” said Cecilia. “I’m sure he was rich; but that matters so little. When he drew out his bill-folder to pay the cabman you couldn’t help seeing hundreds and thousands of dollars in it. And I looked over
