before. Would it not have been better to have waited until Miss Bartholomew came and introduced them? Well, it was too late now.) "Excuse me," she went on, "but are you number four?"
He stared down at her a moment in silence, as if to make sure that he had been addressed. Then, "Did you speak to me, Miss?" he inquired.
"Yes," nodded Reba, "I did. Are you number four?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied politely. "Yes, miss."
"Well, then," Reba simply had to take the initiative. He would not. "I guess we're partners."
"How's that?"
"Why, don't you see? I'm four, and you're four too. We match." And, flushing, Reba held up her number to him as proof.
He glanced at it, then down at his own yellow four, on the lapel of his coat, then back at Reba's again.
"That's so," he said, as if it were a phenomenon he couldn't quite fathom. "That's so." Then he looked at Reba, standing all white and ruffled before him—stared at her frankly a second or two in silence. "That's so. We're partners, I guess," he reiterated, and gave a nervous laugh.
"I guess so," said Reba, and gave a nervous laugh too.
There seemed to be nothing more for her to say, and she stood there, waiting for him to speak—it was his turn. But he didn't say a word! Reba stole a desperate glance at him, at last; and then she saw—she saw his torturing discomfort. His face was very red, and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. He was embarrassed! The slow realization
