He arose, with his heart thumping, and walked about the room during the few moments before Debbie appeared, announcing dinner.
As he approached the dining room where a steaming dish was on the table, he wondered at the vividness with which he imagined himself in the automat with the Royle girl. He sat down in his place at the table opposite his mother, and Debbie laid the brown-crusted and fragrantly flavored hot dish before him.
"Debbie made a beef pie for you, when she heard you were coming."
"Beef pie," said Calvin, halting the big spoon over the hot crust.
"Why, don't you want it?" asked his mother in surprise. "You usually ask for it."
"I don't think I'll eat," said Calvin. "Nothing's the matter, mother. I—I suppose I was upset a little on the train."
"Oh," said his mother. "I knew something happened on the train."
Repeatedly, during the following days, he found himself imagining what the Royle girl would think, if she looked in upon his home. He did not at first set himself deliberately to play with such fancies; he merely met them in his mind, although he probably induced them by rereading his reports upon her experience in the various and diverse domestic establishments which in succession had sheltered her parents and herself. This held before him contrasts that gave him glimpses of his own home from a new and extraordinary point of view.
It was the week in the year at Clarke's Ferry for setting out tulip bulbs, for laying away late apples and casks of cider, for raking mulch over the roots of larkspur, sweet William, Canterbury bells and the other perennials; it was the appointed time for a score of other
