He had risen as she did. “I’m afraid
you’re awfully tired and nervous,” he
said. “I really ought to be going.”
“Yes, of course you ought,” she cried,
despairingly. “There’s nothing else
for you to do. When anything’s spoiled,
people can’t do anything but run away from
it. So good-bye!”
“At least,” he returned, huskily, “we’ll
only—only say good-night.”
Then, as moving to go, he stumbled upon the veranda
steps, “Your hat!” she cried.
“I’d like to keep it for a souvenir, but
I’m afraid you need it!”
She ran into the hall and brought his straw hat from
the chair where he had left it. “You poor
thing!” she said, with quavering laughter.
“Don’t you know you can’t go without
your hat?”
Then, as they faced each other for the short moment
which both of them knew would be the last of all their
veranda moments, Alice’s broken laughter grew
louder. “What a thing to say!” she
cried. “What a romantic parting—talking
about hats!”
Her laughter continued as he turned away, but other
sounds came from within the house, clearly audible
with the opening of a door upstairs—a long
and wailing cry of lamentation in the voice of Mrs.
Adams. Russell paused at the steps, uncertain,
but Alice waved to him to go on.
“Oh, don’t bother,” she said.
“We have lots of that in this funny little
old house! Good-bye!”
And as he went down the steps, she ran back into the
house and closed the door heavily behind her.
Her mother’s wailing could still be heard from
overhead, though more faintly; and old Charley Lohr
was coming down the stairs alone.
He looked at Alice compassionately. “I
was just comin’ to suggest maybe you’d
excuse yourself from your company,” he said.
“Your mother was bound not to disturb you, and
tried her best to keep you from hearin’ how
she’s takin’ on, but I thought probably
you better see to her.”
“Yes, I’ll come. What’s the
matter?”
“Well,” he said, “I only
stepped over to offer my sympathy and services, as
it were. I thought of course you folks knew
all about it. Fact is, it was in the evening
paper—just a little bit of an item on the
back page, of course.”
“What is it?”
He coughed. “Well, it ain’t anything
so terrible,” he said. “Fact is,
your brother Walter’s got in a little trouble—well,
I suppose you might call it quite a good deal of trouble.
Fact is, he’s quite considerable short in his
accounts down at Lamb and Company.”
Alice ran up the stairs and into her father’s
room, where Mrs. Adams threw herself into her daughter’s
arms. “Is he gone?” she sobbed.
“He didn’t hear me, did he? I tried
so hard——”
Alice patted the heaving shoulders her arms enclosed.
“No, no,” she said. “He didn’t
hear you—it wouldn’t have mattered—he
doesn’t matter anyway.”
