Chapter VIII

At half-past five he went into the Busy Bee. Mamie was not busy. She was standing near a glass counter, listlessly leaning one elbow against it. She looked pale, he thought, and yet dainty—dainty and sweet, and she’d come out of Gillen Row. It had been a hot summer. He was glad September was here.

She smiled as she saw him. How little she was! Hadn’t she missed him at all? She had cared a little for him—he felt that. He could make her care again, if she’d give him a chance.

“I must see you,” he told her.

She looked around, rather frightened. He had forgotten that she had to be careful about her position—that she actually was forced to sell candy in the Busy Bee.

“Don’t you want to see me?” he added.

“Of course.”

“You won’t meet me in Elm Street?”

“I don’t dare. I told you. You don’t understand—I—can’t meet you.”

“May I come to see you?”

“I—I told you—”

“But I _must_ see you. Let me call.”

“I don’t—well, all right then, if you want to come. I shouldn’t let you. My father—still, if you want to. I live way down in Gillen Row. We are—are very poor, you know. If you want—”

“Of course I do. Why didn’t you let me come, before? May I come right away, to-night?”

She nodded.

“Where do you live?”

“The third house after Birch Street, Number 530. It’s a little cottage.”

“Go driving with me?”

“I—I told you I couldn’t—at night—and I never have time, other times.”

“To-night then, about eight. How’s that?”

Mamie nodded again, smiled. Embury bought a box of candy to cover his embarrassment.

Going into a candy shop to make an engagement with a shopgirl—trembling when she spoke to him, grinning and ogling over the counter! He had never thought himself capable of that.

As he ate his dinner the engagement became something vastly important, a bit different, a bit devilish. He’d take her out in his car. Of course. It would be a moonlight night. He understood girls. A simple girl like that—