Her charge had grown still again, but she did not relax her tightened arms.
"Say," he said at last.
"Well, honey."
"You know those benches where we wait for the cars?"
"Do I know them?" The imperative inference was that she did.
"I looked at the store yesterday. The sign down there says 'Himebaugh's dignified system of deferred payments.'"
"Yes, yes, I know."
"Well, I saw another good place—it says 'The house of lucky rings'—you know—rings!"
"Sure, I know. That's all right."
"Well," he threw off the arms and got to his feet. She stood up then.
"Well, all right!"
They were both constrained now. Both affected an ease that neither felt. It seemed to be conceded without words that they must very lightly skirt the edges of Merton Gill's screen art. They talked a long time volubly of other things: of the girl's illness from which she now seemed most happily to have recovered, of whether she was afraid of him—she professed still to be—of the new watch whose beauties were newly admired when it had been adjusted to its owner's wrist; of finances they talked, and even, quite simply, of accessible homes where two could live as cheaply as one.
It was not until he was about to go, when he stood at the door while the girl readjusted his cravat, smoothed his hair, and administered a final series of pats where they seemed most needed, that he broke ever so slightly through the reserve which both had felt congealing about a certain topic.
"You know," he said, "I happened to remember the title of a book this morning; a book I used to see back in the public library at home. It wasn't one I ever read. Maybe Tessie Kearns read it. Anyway, she had a poem she likes a lot written by the same man. She used to read me good parts of it. But I never read the book because the title
