Alice had said that no one who knew either Russell or herself would be likely to see them in the park or upon the dingy¹ street; but although they returned by that same ungenteel thoroughfare they were seen by a person who knew them both. Also, with some surprise on the part of Russell, and something more poignant² than surprise for Alice, they saw this person.  
All of the dingy street was ugly, but the greater part of it appeared to be honest. The two pedestrians³ came upon a block or two, however, where it offered suggestions of a less upright character, like a steady enough workingman with a naughty book sticking out of his pocket. Three or four dim shops, a single story in height, exhibited foul⁴ signboards, yet fair enough so far as the wording went; one proclaiming a tobacconist, one a junk-dealer, one a dispenser of “soft drinks and cigars.” The most credulous⁵ would have doubted these signboards; for the craft of the modern tradesman is exerted to lure⁶ indoors the passing glance, since if the glance is pleased the feet may follow; but this alleged⁷ tobacconist and his neighbours had long been fond of dust on their windows, evidently, and shades were pulled far down on the glass of their doors. Thus the public eye, small of pupil in the light of the open street, was intentionally⁸ not invited to the dusky interiors. Something different from mere⁹ lack of enterprise was apparent; and the signboards might have been omitted; they were pains thrown away, since it was plain to the world that the business parts of these shops were the brighter back rooms implied by the dark front rooms; and that the commerce there was in perilous¹⁰ new liquors and in dice¹¹ and rough girls.
 
Nothing could have been more innocent than the serenity¹² with which these wicked little places revealed themselves for what they were; and, bound by this final tie of guilelessness, they stood together in a row which ended with a companionable barbershop, much like them. Beyond was a series of soot-harried frame two-story houses, once part of a cheerful neighbourhood when the town was middle-aged¹³ and settled, and not old and growing. These houses, all carrying the label. “Rooms,” had the worried look of vacancy¹⁴ that houses have when they are too full of everybody without being anybody's home; and there was, too, a surreptitious air about them, as if, like the false little shops, they advertised something by concealing¹⁵ it.
 
One of them—the one next to the barber-shop—had across its front an ample, jig-sawed veranda¹⁶, where aforetime, no doubt, the father of a family had fanned himself with a palm-leaf fan on Sunday afternoons, watching the surreys go by, and where his daughter listened to mandolins and badinage¹⁷ on starlit evenings; but, although youth still held the veranda, both the youth and the veranda were in decay. The four or five young men who lounged there this afternoon were of a type known to shady pool-parlours. Hats found no favour with them; all of them wore caps; and their tight clothes, apparently¹⁸ from a common source, showed a vivacious¹⁹ fancy for oblique²⁰ pockets, false belts, and Easter-egg colourings. Another thing common to the group was the expression of eye and mouth; and Alice, in the midst of her other thoughts, had a distasteful thought about this.
 
The veranda was within a dozen feet of the sidewalk, and as she and her escort came nearer, she took note of the young men, her face hardening a little, even before she suspected there might be a resemblance between them and any one she knew. Then she observed that each of these loungers wore not for the occasion, but as of habit, a look of furtively²¹ amused contempt; the mouth smiled to one side as if not to dislodge a cigarette, while the eyes kept languidly superior. All at once Alice was reminded of Walter; and the slight frown caused by this idea had just begun to darken her forehead when Walter himself stepped out of the open door of the house and appeared upon the veranda. Upon his head was a new straw hat, and in his hand was a Malacca stick with an ivory top, for Alice had finally decided²² against it for herself and had given it to him. His mood was lively: he twirled the stick through his fingers like a drum-major's baton²³, and whistled loudly.
 
Moreover, he was indeed accompanied. With him was a thin girl who had made a violent black-and-white poster of herself: black dress, black flimsy boa, black stockings, white slippers²⁴, great black hat down upon the black eyes; and beneath the hat a curve of cheek and chin made white as whitewash²⁵, and in strong bilateral²⁶ motion with gum.
 
The loungers on the veranda were familiars of the pair; hailed them with cacklings; and one began to sing, in a voice all tin:
 
     “Then my skirt, Sal, and me did go
     Right straight to the moving-pitcher show.
     OH, you bashful vamp!”
 
The girl laughed airily. “God, but you guys are wise!” she said.
 
“Come on, Wallie.”
 
Walter stared at his sister; then grinned faintly, and nodded at Russell as the latter lifted his hat in salutation. Alice uttered an incoherent syllable²⁷ of exclamation²⁸, and, as she began to walk faster, she bit her lip hard, not in order to look wistful, this time, but to help her keep tears of anger from her eyes.
 
Russell laughed cheerfully. “Your brother certainly seems to have found the place for 'colour' today,” he said. “That girl's talk must be full of it.”
 
But Alice had forgotten the colour she herself had used in accounting²⁹ for Walter's peculiarities³⁰, and she did not understand. “What?” she said, huskily.
 
“Don't you remember telling me about him? How he was going to write, probably, and would go anywhere to pick up types and get them to talk?”
 
She kept her eyes ahead, and said sharply, “I think his literary tastes scarcely cover this case!”
 
“Don't be too sure. He didn't look at all disconcerted. He didn't seem to mind your seeing him.”
 
“That's all the worse, isn't it?”
 
“Why, no,” her friend said, genially³¹. “It means he didn't consider that he was engaged in anything out of the way. You can't expect to understand everything boys do at his age; they do all sorts of queer things, and outgrow³² them. Your brother evidently has a taste for queer people, and very likely he's been at least half sincere when he's made you believe he had a literary motive³³ behind it. We all go through——”
 
“Thanks, Mr. Russell,” she interrupted. “Let's don't say any more.”
 
He looked at her flushed face and enlarged eyes; and he liked her all the better for her indignation: this was how good sisters ought to feel, he thought, failing to understand that most of what she felt was not about Walter. He ventured only a word more. “Try not to mind it so much; it really doesn't amount to anything.”
 
She shook her head, and they went on in silence; she did not look at him again until they stopped before her own house. Then she gave him only one glimpse of her eyes before she looked down. “It's spoiled, isn't it?” she said, in a low voice.
 
“What's 'spoiled?'”
 
“Our walk—well, everything. Somehow it always—is.”
 
“'Always is' what?” he asked.
 
“Spoiled,” she said.
 
He laughed at that; but without looking at him she suddenly offered him her hand, and, as he took it, he felt a hurried, violent pressure upon his fingers, as if she meant to thank him almost passionately³⁴ for being kind. She was gone before he could speak to her again.
 
In her room, with the door locked, she did not go to her mirror, but to her bed, flinging herself face down, not caring how far the pillows put her hat awry³⁵. Sheer grief had followed her anger; grief for the calamitous³⁶ end of her bright afternoon, grief for the “end of everything,” as she thought then. Nevertheless, she gradually grew more composed, and, when her mother tapped on the door presently, let her in. Mrs. Adams looked at her with quick apprehension³⁷.
 
“Oh, poor child! Wasn't he——”
 
Alice told her. “You see how it—how it made me look, mama,” she quavered, having concluded her narrative³⁸. “I'd tried to cover up Walter's awfulness at the dance with that story about his being 'literary,' but no story was big enough to cover this up—and oh! it must make him think I tell stories about other things!”
 
“No, no, no!” Mrs. Adams protested. “Don't you see? At the worst, all HE could think is that Walter told stories to you about why he likes to be with such dreadful people, and you believed them. That's all HE'D think; don't you see?”
 
Alice's wet eyes began to show a little hopefulness. “You honestly think it might be that way, mama?”
 
“Why, from what you've told me he said, I KNOW it's that way. Didn't he say he wanted to come again?”
 
“N-no,” Alice said, uncertainly. “But I think he will. At least I begin to think so now. He——” She stopped.
 
“From all you tell me, he seems to be a very desirable young man,” Mrs. Adams said, primly³⁹.
 
Her daughter was silent for several moments; then new tears gathered upon her downcast lashes⁴⁰. “He's just—dear!” she faltered⁴¹.
 
Mrs. Adams nodded. “He's told you he isn't engaged, hasn't he?”
 
“No. But I know he isn't. Maybe when he first came here he was near it, but I know he's not.”
 
“I guess Mildred Palmer would LIKE him to be, all right!” Mrs. Adams was frank enough to say, rather triumphantly⁴²; and Alice, with a lowered head, murmured:
 
“Anybody—would.”
 
The words were all but inaudible.
 
“Don't you worry,” her moth............