Carl grew red, then pale.
He started to turn away, then turned back again. He tried to speak, and couldn’t. The girl at the window regarded him with silent sympathy. The symptoms evidently were by no means unknown to her.
By a gesture she directed Carl’s attention to a card lying on the window ledge. He picked it up with fumbling fingers and read:
INSPECTOR
Bureau of Labor
City of New York
Then, looking into the eyes again, he stammered: “Yes — er — oh, yes!”
“I have come to inspect your loft. Your factory is here, isn’t it?”
Even with its businesslike tone, the voice was sweetly modulated, as the call of spring.
Mr. Cohen, who heard everything, came bustling up. “What is it you want?” he demanded.
The girl flushed at his tone. “I want to see if the operators are working under proper sanitary conditions,” she answered.
Mr. Cohen regarded her with an air of suspicion. “Well, why should — Oh, all right.” To Carclass="underline" “Mr. McNair, the young lady wants to see the factory. You should go up with her, because I got a customer — Mr. Waldstein, from Yonkers.”
And he hurried back to Mr. Waldstein as one ready and anxious for battle.
During the interruption Carl had somewhat recovered his wits; in thinking it over afterward, he was amazed at his own composure in conducting the girl courteously to the elevator and through the whirring maze of sewing machines and finishers on the upper floor.
He watched her silently as she talked with the foreman and gave him some final instructions as to the ventilation. When she turned to go he hastened before her to the elevator and pressed the button carefully and firmly, as though it were a most important ceremony, and entered the car after her.
Arrived at the first floor, they walked together to the outer vestibule. The girl turned and held out her hand. “Thank you so much,” she said.
Carl hesitated, took the offered hand, and let it fall. Then, gathering himself together: “I — er — I... wanted to say something. May I?”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“You are sure you won’t be offended?”
“Well,” she hesitated in her turn, “that depends on what you have to say.”
“I know I don’t want to offend you,” declared Carl, smiling with so engaging a frankness that she returned it involuntarily, “but I probably shall.”
There could be no doubt about his sincerity. “Well?” the girl asked encouragingly.
“Of course,” he managed to continue, “you won’t, I know. But I thought — could — would you — go to lunch with me?”
He asked the commonplace question with a tragic earnestness that was completely ludicrous. The girl hesitated.
“Is it a lark?” she asked. And noting his surprise, “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she continued. “What I meant was, I’ll go.”
Carl could scarcely believe his ears. He had asked her just as a gambler throws his last dollar on the wheel, sure of failure, on a hopeless chance. Which may seem exaggerated to those of my readers to whom spring means merely a time to plant cabbages.
“But... but perhaps you don’t want to go,” he stammered foolishly.
“Of course I do. But I don’t want to stand in this vestibule all day,” smiling.
Carl blurted out an excuse, and went to the office for his hat and gloves. He had no time to wonder why she had agreed to go, but he might have known. The reader may guess.
In less than a minute he returned, and they started up Fifth Avenue.
“Now” — as they neared Twenty-second Street — “the first thing is where to go. Is Martin’s all right?”
“Certainly. But how did you happen to think of Martin’s?”
Carl flushed at the implication. “Well, I don’t eat there every day,” he admitted.
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, embarrassed. “I... why, you know I couldn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter the least bit if you did,” he asserted. “I refuse to consider myself disgraced because I am rich. Anyway,” meaningly, “I certainly can’t expect you to be conventional. And now I’m even.”
“That is very rude of you, and I’ve a mind to go back.”
“Forgive me,” humbly. “If I were to live a thousand years I couldn’t tell you how very, very grateful I am.”
They walked on in silence.
“Do you know,” he continued, after they had entered the restaurant and seated themselves at a table over against the side wall, “I believe you were right, after all.”
“How? What did I say?”
“It is a lark.”
“I was wrong; it is nothing of the sort. At least, not for me.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“A... an act of charity.”
“Oh, that is all forgotten,” airily. “I was just pretending. Or if I was a little blue, now I’m gay as — as a lark.”
“ ‘Hence, vain, deluding joys,’ ” the girl quoted solemnly.
For the next five minutes Carl was lost in the mazes of the menu. He felt sure that there was nothing on it — or anywhere — good enough for her; but something must be ordered. He ended by selecting those items with the longest names and the highest prices, and turned to the girl with a sigh of relief.
She was gazing out of the window at the passersby, her elbow on the table, her chin resting in her hand, her lips curved in a thoughtful smile.
Carl watched her so for a full minute. If, he thought, he had collected all his vague longings of the morning into one wish, it would have been for this. She was perfect, no less. If he had been a nice observer, he might have thought the finely tailored suit and fashionable French bonnet rather out of place on a humble inspector of the bureau of labor; but all he knew or cared was that they were suited to her.
“Do you know,” he remarked, “I don’t even know your name.”
She started and turned at the sound of his voice. “Well, I—” hesitating, “a rose by — only I don’t pretend to be a rose.”
“But you are.”
“That, Mr. McNair, was very clumsy — and obvious.”
“I knew you knew mine,” scornfully. “Mr. Cohen called me, and you heard him.”
“You are dreadfully conceited,” she retorted, cheated out of her surprise. “Of course I heard him call you; but why should I remember it?”
Carl meanly took advantage of the opening. “Well,” he said, “you did.”
“Oh, very well! Now I shall never tell you.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Never.”
There was a pause. Carl looked at her imploringly. She busied herself with a plate of clams. Finally;
“I wish you would tell me something,” she said. “Will you?”
“Never,” declared Carl firmly. They both laughed.
“Must I say ‘please’?” she asked.
“Yes. Twice.”
“No; I am in earnest. Please tell me.”
“Anything.” And he, too, was in earnest.
“I want to know all about you.”
“Oh, then it wouldn’t be a lark!” he protested.
“But I really want to know.”
“Well — what, for instance?”