rumbled northward, and Lila sat back in her seat with her eyes half closed, scarcely listening.
His voice came to her in a gruff monotone above the rattle of the train, and against her will filled her with a sense of protection and comfort. The words came to her vaguely, unintelligible; but the tone was that of sympathy and friendship—and how she needed them!
Thus she allowed him to continue, while she remained silent, dimly conscious of the danger she had once felt in his glance and voice.
At the One Hundred and Fourth Street station he rose, and she saw with a sense of surprise that she had reached her destination. At the train gate she turned to thank him, but he assisted her down the steps of the station and started west on One Hundred and Fourth Street at her side.
“You are surprised that I know the way?” he smiled. “You should not be. How many times have I stood in this street looking up at your window, when you thought I was far away—or, rather, when you were not thinking of me at all!”
“Mr. Sherman!” exclaimed Lila warningly.
They had halted at the stoop of an old-fashioned brownstone apartment house, and Lila had mounted the three or four steps and stood looking down at him.
“Forgive me,” said Sherman in a tone of contrition. “But you have not answered me—I mean, what I said on the train. There could be nothing offensive in what I proposed, unless you hate me.”
“No. I think I do not hate you,” said Lila slowly.
She was tired, and longed to be alone, and was forcing herself to be polite to him.
“Then you are my friend?”
“I—think—so.”
“Will you shake hands on it?”
Lila appeared to hesitate, and shivered—possibly from the cold. Finally she extended a reluctant hand a few inches in front of her.
Then, as soon as Sherman touched it with his fingers, she withdrew it hastily, and, with a hurried “Good night, and thank you,” disappeared within the house.
For a long minute Sherman stood gazing at the door which had closed behind her; then, turning sharply, he started off down the street. At Columbus Avenue he entered a saloon and ordered a brandy.
“God knows I need it,” he muttered to himself. “The little devil! Well, I can’t play that game. It’s too hard to hold myself in. The other way is more dangerous, perhaps, but it’s easier. Friendship! I’ll show you a new kind of friendship!”
He beckoned to the bartender and ordered another brandy, with a knowing leer at his reflection in the mirror opposite. Then, having drained his second glass, he left the saloon and, crossing the street to the Elevated station, boarded a downtown train. In thirty minutes he was back at the Lamartine.
The lobby was almost deserted; it was too early for the evening throng. Sherman wandered about in search of one of the Erring Knights, but in vain; and he finally asked the Venus at the cigar stand if she had seen Knowlton. She replied that he had not been in the lobby, and Sherman departed for dinner, well satisfied with the events of the day.
He was destined, on the following day, to have that feeling of satisfaction rudely shattered and converted into despair.
The next morning the Erring Knights were openly and frankly jubilant. Knowlton had obeyed their warning; clearly, he was afraid of them. They felt an increased sense of proprietary right in Miss Williams.
Dougherty, entering the lobby about eleven o’clock, stopped at Lila’s desk to say good morning, and stared in anxious surprise at her pale cheeks and red, tear-stained eyes.
“Are you ill?” he asked bluntly.
“Not I,” she answered, trying to smile. “I had a headache, but it is all right now.”
Dougherty grumbled something unintelligible, and proceeded to the corner where the Erring Knights were assembled. He was the last to arrive. Dumain, Jennings, and Driscoll were seated on the leather lounge, and Sherman and Booth were leaning against the marble pillars in front of it. They greeted
His voice came to her in a gruff monotone above the rattle of the train, and against her will filled her with a sense of protection and comfort. The words came to her vaguely, unintelligible; but the tone was that of sympathy and friendship—and how she needed them!
Thus she allowed him to continue, while she remained silent, dimly conscious of the danger she had once felt in his glance and voice.
At the One Hundred and Fourth Street station he rose, and she saw with a sense of surprise that she had reached her destination. At the train gate she turned to thank him, but he assisted her down the steps of the station and started west on One Hundred and Fourth Street at her side.
“You are surprised that I know the way?” he smiled. “You should not be. How many times have I stood in this street looking up at your window, when you thought I was far away—or, rather, when you were not thinking of me at all!”
“Mr. Sherman!” exclaimed Lila warningly.
They had halted at the stoop of an old-fashioned brownstone apartment house, and Lila had mounted the three or four steps and stood looking down at him.
“Forgive me,” said Sherman in a tone of contrition. “But you have not answered me—I mean, what I said on the train. There could be nothing offensive in what I proposed, unless you hate me.”
“No. I think I do not hate you,” said Lila slowly.
She was tired, and longed to be alone, and was forcing herself to be polite to him.
“Then you are my friend?”
“I—think—so.”
“Will you shake hands on it?”
Lila appeared to hesitate, and shivered—possibly from the cold. Finally she extended a reluctant hand a few inches in front of her.
Then, as soon as Sherman touched it with his fingers, she withdrew it hastily, and, with a hurried “Good night, and thank you,” disappeared within the house.
For a long minute Sherman stood gazing at the door which had closed behind her; then, turning sharply, he started off down the street. At Columbus Avenue he entered a saloon and ordered a brandy.
“God knows I need it,” he muttered to himself. “The little devil! Well, I can’t play that game. It’s too hard to hold myself in. The other way is more dangerous, perhaps, but it’s easier. Friendship! I’ll show you a new kind of friendship!”
He beckoned to the bartender and ordered another brandy, with a knowing leer at his reflection in the mirror opposite. Then, having drained his second glass, he left the saloon and, crossing the street to the Elevated station, boarded a downtown train. In thirty minutes he was back at the Lamartine.
The lobby was almost deserted; it was too early for the evening throng. Sherman wandered about in search of one of the Erring Knights, but in vain; and he finally asked the Venus at the cigar stand if she had seen Knowlton. She replied that he had not been in the lobby, and Sherman departed for dinner, well satisfied with the events of the day.
He was destined, on the following day, to have that feeling of satisfaction rudely shattered and converted into despair.
The next morning the Erring Knights were openly and frankly jubilant. Knowlton had obeyed their warning; clearly, he was afraid of them. They felt an increased sense of proprietary right in Miss Williams.
Dougherty, entering the lobby about eleven o’clock, stopped at Lila’s desk to say good morning, and stared in anxious surprise at her pale cheeks and red, tear-stained eyes.
“Are you ill?” he asked bluntly.
“Not I,” she answered, trying to smile. “I had a headache, but it is all right now.”
Dougherty grumbled something unintelligible, and proceeded to the corner where the Erring Knights were assembled. He was the last to arrive. Dumain, Jennings, and Driscoll were seated on the leather lounge, and Sherman and Booth were leaning against the marble pillars in front of it. They greeted
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