“Dora!” he said again, and then had to pause to steady his voice.

Dora wet her red lips with the pointed tip of her tiny tongue; swallowed nervously once or twice, before she spoke.  She was now facing him, and still smiling.

He kept his eyes fixed on her face.  He did not respond to the smile.  His eyes were tragic.  He seemed to be seeking something in her face as if he feared her mere words would not help him.

“Why, Zeke,” she said at last, when she realized that he could not get beyond her name, “I thought you had gone home an hour ago!  Why didn’t you take the 5.15 train?”

“I changed my mind!  To tell you the truth, I heard that you were in town this afternoon.  I have been watching for you—­for some time.”

“Well, all I can say is—­you are foolish.  Where’s the good for you fretting yourself so?  I can take care of myself.”

“I can’t get used to you being about in the city streets alone.”

“How absurd!”

“I have been absurd a great many times of late—­in your eyes.  Our ideas don’t seem to agree any more.”

“No, Zeke, they don’t!”

“Why speak to me in that tone, Dora?  Don’t do it!”

He looked over her head, as if to be sure of his hold on himself.  He was ghastly white about his smooth-shaven, thick lips.  Both hands were thrust deep into his reefer pockets.

“What’s come to you, Zeke?” she asked nervously.  His was not exactly the face one would see unmoved!

He answered her without looking at her.  It was evident he did not dare just yet.  “Nothing much, I reckon.  I’ve been a bit down all day.  I really don’t know why, myself.  I’ve had a queer presentiment, as if something were going to happen.  As if something terrible were coming to me.”

“Well, I’m sorry.  You’ve no occasion to feel like that, I’m sure.”

“All right, if you say so.  What train shall we take?”

He stretched out one hand to take the small bag she carried.

She shrank back instinctively, and withdrew the bag.  He must have felt rather than seen the movement, it was so slight.

His hand fell to his side.

Still, he persisted.

“I’m dead done up, Dora.  I need my dinner, come on!”

“Then you’d better take the 6.00 train.  You’ve just time,” she said hurriedly.

“All right.  Come on!”

He laid his hand on her shoulder with a gesture that was entreating.  It was the first time he had touched her.  A frightened look came into her eyes.  He did not see it, for he was still avoiding her face.  It was as if he were afraid of reading something there he did not wish to know.

Her red lips had taken on a petulant expression—­that of one who hated to be “stirred up.”  In a childish voice—­which only thinly veiled an obstinate determination—­she pouted:  “I’m not going—­yet.”

The words were said almost under her breath, as if she were fearful of their effect on him, yet was determined to carry her point.