When Gordon started home from his round of visits with Kate the wind had hauled to the north and it began to spit drops of snow. The cars were still crowded, the aisles full and the platforms jammed, though it was seven o'clock. He buttoned his coat about his neck and paced the station, waiting for a train in which he could find a seat.
"Bad omen for my trustee meeting to-night," he muttered. "This air feels like Van Meter's breath."
He allowed four trains to pass, and at last boarded one worse crowded than the first. With a sigh for the end of chivalry, he pushed his way through the dense mass packed at the doors, wedging his big form roughly among the women, to the centre of the car, and mechanically seized a strap. He was so used to this leather-strap habit that he held on with one hand and, while reading, unfolded and folded his paper with the other.
He climbed the hill to his home in the face of a howling snow-storm.
Ruth looked at him intently.
"I am sorry I couldn't get home earlier," he said, "I've had a hard day."
