The band struck up a new tune.  Leon Sammett—­slim, sleek, lithe in his evening clothes—­appeared with a little fair girl in pink chiffon.  The woman reached across the table and put one pudgy, jewelled hand on Terry’s arm.  “He’ll be through in ten minutes.  Now listen to me.  I left Jim four years ago, and there hasn’t been a minute since then, day or night, when I wouldn’t have crawled back to him on my hands and knees if I could.  But I couldn’t.  He wouldn’t have me now.  How could he?  How do I know you’ve quarrelled?  I can see it in your eyes.  They look just the way mine have felt for four years, that’s how.  I met up with this boy, and there wasn’t anybody to do the turn for me that I’m trying to do for you.  Now get this.  I left Jim because when he ate corn on the cob he always closed his eyes and it drove me wild.  Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” said Terry.

“Women are like that.  One night—­we was playing Fond du Lac; I remember just as plain—­we was eating supper and Jim reached for one of those big yellow ears, and buttered and salted it, and me kind of hanging on to the edge of the table with my nails.  Seemed to me if he shut his eyes when he put his teeth into that ear of corn I’d scream.  And he did.  And I screamed.  And that’s all.”

Terry sat staring at her with a wide-eyed stare, like a sleep walker.  Then she wet her lips, slowly.  “But that’s almost the very—­”

“Kid, go on back home.  I don’t know whether it’s too late or not, but go anyway.  If you’ve lost him I suppose it ain’t any more than you deserve, but I hope to God you don’t get your desserts this time.  He’s almost through.  If he sees you going he can’t quit in the middle of his song to stop you.  He’ll know I put you wise, and he’ll prob’ly half kill me for it.  But it’s worth it.  You get.”

And Terry—­dazed, shaking, but grateful—­fled.  Down the noisy aisle, up the stairs, to the street.  Back to her rooming house.  Out again, with her suitcase, and into the right railroad station somehow, at last.  Not another Wetona train until midnight.  She shrank into a remote corner of the waiting room and there she huddled until midnight watching the entrances like a child who is fearful of ghosts in the night.

The hands of the station clock seemed fixed and immovable.  The hour between eleven and twelve was endless.  She was on the train.  It was almost morning.  It was morning.  Dawn was breaking.  She was home!  She had the house key clutched tightly in her hand long before she turned Schroeder’s corner.  Suppose he had come home!  Suppose he had jumped a town and come home ahead of his schedule.  They had quarrelled once before, and he had done that.