I stood on one foot, as it were, as I sat in my rickety chair.

“Why—­er—­Miss Lowery,” I began, secretly enraged at Tripp’s awkward opening, “I am at your service, of course, but—­er—­as I haven’t been apprized of the circumstances of the case, I—­er—­”

“Oh,” said Miss Lowery, beaming for a moment, “it ain’t as bad as that—­there ain’t any circumstances.  It’s the first time I’ve ever been in New York except once when I was five years old, and I had no idea it was such a big town.  And I met Mr.—­Mr. Snip on the street and asked him about a friend of mine, and he brought me here and asked me to wait.”

“I advise you, Miss Lowery,” said Tripp, “to tell Mr. Chalmers all.  He’s a friend of mine” (I was getting used to it by this time), “and he’ll give you the right tip.”

“Why, certainly,” said Miss Ada, chewing a gum-drop toward me.  “There ain’t anything to tell except that—­well, everything’s fixed for me to marry Hiram Dodd next Thursday evening.  Hi has got two hundred acres of land with a lot of shore-front, and one of the best truck-farms on the Island.  But this morning I had my horse saddled up—­he’s a white horse named Dancer—­and I rode over to the station.  I told ’em at home I was going to spend the day with Susie Adams.  It was a story, I guess, but I don’t care.  And I came to New York on the train, and I met Mr.—­Mr. Flip on the street and asked him if he knew where I could find G—­G—­”

“Now, Miss Lowery,” broke in Tripp, loudly, and with much bad taste, I thought, as she hesitated with her word, “you like this young man, Hiram Dodd, don’t you?  He’s all right, and good to you, ain’t he?”

“Of course I like him,” said Miss Lowery emphatically.  “Hi’s all right.  And of course he’s good to me.  So is everybody.”

I could have sworn it myself.  Throughout Miss Ada Lowery’s life all men would be to good to her.  They would strive, contrive, struggle, and compete to hold umbrellas over her hat, check her trunk, pick up her handkerchief, and buy for her soda at the fountain.

“But,” went on Miss Lowery, “last night I got to thinking about G—­George, and I—­”

Down went the bright gold head upon dimpled, clasped hands on the table.  Such a beautiful April storm!  Unrestrainedly she sobbed.  I wished I could have comforted her.  But I was not George.  And I was glad I was not Hiram—­and yet I was sorry, too.

By-and-by the shower passed.  She straightened up, brave and half-way smiling.  She would have made a splendid wife, for crying only made her eyes more bright and tender.  She took a gum-drop and began her story.

“I guess I’m a terrible hayseed,” she said between her little gulps and sighs, “but I can’t help it.  G—­George Brown and I were sweethearts since he was eight and I was five.  When he was nineteen—­that was four years ago—­he left Greenburg and went to the city.  He said he was going to be a policeman or a railroad president or something.  And then he was coming back for me.  But I never heard from him any more.  And I—­I—­liked him.”