SHE had left the office early and had caught a car that was passing the corner as he came out. As soon as he entered he knew that Rosalind was in the car, three seats ahead. He gave a little start, a quick flash—he did not want to catch Rosalind off guard—Then he smiled; it was not Rosalind of the alcove¹—it was the plain, every-day Rosalind, her lap heaped with bundles, and bundles on the seat beside her. Rosalind’s flannels², he thought, probably.
 
He moved down the aisle³ and stood beside the seat, lifting his hat and looking down at her.
 
“Why, Eldridge!” She looked up with the little peering smile and made a place for him among the bundles, trying to gather them up into her lap.
 
But he swept them away. “I’ll take these,” he said.
 
The little distressed⁴ look came between her eyes. Eldridge couldn’t bear bundles. “I thought I wouldn’t wait to have them sent,” she apologized. “It’s so cold—and they need them—right off.”
 
“Yes—” He looked at her jacket; it was thin, with the shabby lining⁵ showing at the edge. “Did you get yourself a warm wrap?” he asked.
 
She was looking out of the window, and the line of her cheek flushed swiftly. “No—I—”
 
“I want you to do it—at once.”
 
She glanced at him—a little questioning look in her face. “I—have—seen something I like—” she said.
 
“Get it to-morrow. I will order it for you when I go in.”
 
Her hands made a gesture above the bundles. “Please don’t, Eldridge. I would rather—do it—myself.”
 
“Very well. But remember to get it.”
 
“Yes—I will get it.” She sighed softly.
 
Deceitful Rosalind! If he had not seen for himself the box in the attic⁶ with its overflowing⁷ soft colors and the grey fur, he would not have believed the deceit of her face....
 
Not that he was blaming anybody. He was not blaming Rosalind. The picture of Mr. Eldridge Walcott remained with him.... He was not likely to forget how Mr. Eldridge Walcott had looked to him—in the flash of light.
 
Perhaps he looked like that to Rosalind—to both Rosalinds! He turned a little in the seat and glanced down at her—Yes, they were both there—the plain little figure in its shabby jacket and the reticent⁸, beautiful woman of the alcove.
 
The fingers in cheap gloves were fussing at a parcel. “I got fleece-lined shirts for Tommie—his skin is so sensitive—I thought I would try fleece-lined ones for him.”
 
Damn fleece-lined ones! Would she never talk to him except of undershirts—and coal-hods? He took the paper from his pocket and glanced casually⁹ at it.
 
“Has coal gone up?” she asked. “They said it would go up—if it stayed cold.” The anxious, lines were in her face.
 
He put down the paper and leaned toward her. He felt nearer to her, in a street car, than in his own home. “Don’t you worry about coal, Rosalind! We shall not freeze—nor starve.”
 
She stared a little. “Of course, we shall not freeze, Eldridge!”
 
“I mean there is plenty—to be comfortable with. You are not to worry and pinch.”
 
A quick look flooded out at him—a look of the Rosalind within. “You mean we can afford not to worry?”
 
He saw the prig Eldridge Walcott, walking in serene¹⁰ knowledge of a comfortable income while the little lines had gathered in her face. He longed to kick the respectable Mr. Eldridge Walcott from behind.
 
“There is quite enough money,” he said. “I am doing better than I have—and I shall do better yet.”
 
She looked down at the bundles. “I might have got a better quality,” she said.
 
“Take them all back,” said Eldridge. “I’ll take them—”
 
But she shook her head. “No, they need them to-morrow—and these will do—” She smiled at them. “It’s really more the feeling that you can get better ones, isn’t it? You don’t mind wearing old things—if you know you could have better ones—if you wanted to—” She broke off vaguely¹¹.
 ............