On Monday morning, shortly after the McKee prolonged
breakfast was over, a small man of perhaps fifty,
with iron-gray hair and a sparse goatee, made his
way along the Street. He moved with the air of
one having a definite destination but a by no means
definite reception.
As he walked along he eyed with a professional glance
the ailanthus and maple trees which, with an occasional
poplar, lined the Street. At the door of Mrs.
McKee’s boarding-house he stopped. Owing
to a slight change in the grade of the street, the
McKee house had no stoop, but one flat doorstep.
Thus it was possible to ring the doorbell from the
pavement, and this the stranger did. It gave
him a curious appearance of being ready to cut and
run if things were unfavorable.
For a moment things were indeed unfavorable.
Mrs. McKee herself opened the door. She recognized
him at once, but no smile met the nervous one that
formed itself on the stranger’s face.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?”
“It’s me, Mrs. McKee.”
“Well?”
He made a conciliatory effort.
“I was thinking, as I came along,” he
said, “that you and the neighbors had better
get after these here caterpillars. Look at them
maples, now.”
“If you want to see Tillie, she’s busy.”
“I only want to say how-d ’ye-do.
I’m just on my way through town.”
“I’ll say it for you.”
A certain doggedness took the place of his tentative
smile.
“I’ll say it to myself, I guess.
I don’t want any unpleasantness, but I’ve
come a good ways to see her and I’ll hang around
until I do.”
Mrs. McKee knew herself routed, and retreated to the
kitchen.
“You’re wanted out front,” she said.
“Who is it?”
“Never mind. Only, my advice to you is,
don’t be a fool.”
Tillie went suddenly pale. The hands with which
she tied a white apron over her gingham one were shaking.
Her visitor had accepted the open door as permission
to enter and was standing in the hall.
He went rather white himself when he saw Tillie coming
toward him down the hall. He knew that for Tillie
this visit would mean that he was free—and
he was not free. Sheer terror of his errand filled
him.
“Well, here I am, Tillie.”
“All dressed up and highly perfumed!”
said poor Tillie, with the question in her eyes.
“You’re quite a stranger, Mr. Schwitter.”
“I was passing through, and I just thought I’d
call around and tell you—My God, Tillie,
I’m glad to see you!”
She made no reply, but opened the door into the cool
and, shaded little parlor. He followed her in
and closed the door behind him.
“I couldn’t help it. I know I promised.”
“Then she—?”
“She’s still living. Playing with
paper dolls—that’s the latest.”
