She looked at him in a way he had once found fascinating--her
chin thrown forward, her cheeks supported by her knuckles. Little
specks of her boa fell into her untouched teacup.
"Come home with Alfred and me," she begged, with half-ashamed
earnestness. "It's band night and we might ask the Johnsons in to
supper. I've got a nice steak in the house, been hanging, and Mrs.
Cross could come in and cook it while we are out. Mr. Johnson would
sing to us afterwards, and there's your banjo. You do play it so well,
Alfred. You used to like band nights--to look forward to them all the
week. Come, now!"
The man's whole being was in a state of revolt. It was an amazing thing
indeed, this which had come to him. No wonder Ellen was puzzled! She
had right on her side, and more than right. It was perfectly true that
he had been accustomed to look forward to band nights. It was true that
he used to like to have a neighbor in to supper afterwards, and play the
fool with the banjo and crack silly jokes; talk shop with Johnson, who
was an auctioneer's clerk himself; smoke atrocious cigars and make worse
puns. And now! He looked at her almost pitifully.
"I--I can't manage it just yet," he said, hurriedly.
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