I knew. The girl, as sure as I was alive, was no other than Sarah Platt—Sarah Platt, whom I had longed to know at boarding-school; Sarah Platt who had always scorned the very sight of Lucy Vars; Sarah Platt whom finally I had almost spat upon as contemptible and mean. A half an hour ago, Oliver had tried to hide me, and now I tried to hide myself. I slunk behind a telegraph-pole. Sarah swept by like a gilded chariot; I heard her voice; I smelled the odor of her violets. "She'll always be glorious and happy," I thought savagely. "She'll always have a good time. She'll marry that young man. I know she will. And I—I'll always be poor and miserable and forgotten."
It was half-past two when I re-entered the big station, inquired of a news-stand girl the way to the restaurant, and found my way to the lunch counter. Instead of luncheon with Oliver, at a small table in some darling little college-town restaurant, I hoisted myself up on a stool and ordered a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. The girl who drew the steaming black liquid out of the shining metal tank looked sour and dissatisfied. She slopped some of it on the saucer as she shoved the thick crockery toward me. She slammed down my check and slung a towel up over her shoulder with a sort of vehemence that expressed my feelings exactly. I don't know why she was so miserable; I never knew; but I sympathised just the same. When she dropped a glass and it shattered and broke at her feet, she merely shrugged her shoulders, and kicked the pieces as if she didn't care a rap if the whole station fell down and broke. Oh, I just loved that girl, somehow. I knew she
