There was a scraping of chairs in the room.  It was then that George Willard retreated to his own room.  Leaning out at the window he saw Joe Welling going along the street with the two Kings.  Tom King was forced to take extraordinary long strides to keep pace with the little man.  As he strode along, he leaned over, listening—­absorbed, fascinated.  Joe Welling again talked excitedly.  “Take milkweed now,” he cried.  “A lot might be done with milkweed, eh?  It’s almost unbelievable.  I want you to think about it.  I want you two to think about it.  There would be a new vegetable kingdom you see.  It’s interesting, eh?  It’s an idea.  Wait till you see Sarah, she’ll get the idea.  She’ll be interested.  Sarah is always interested in ideas.  You can’t be too smart for Sarah, now can you?  Of course you can’t.  You know that.”

ADVENTURE

Alice Hindman, a woman of twenty-seven when George Willard was a mere boy, had lived in Winesburg all her life.  She clerked in Winney’s Dry Goods Store and lived with her mother, who had married a second husband.

Alice’s step-father was a carriage painter, and given to drink.  His story is an odd one.  It will be worth telling some day.

At twenty-seven Alice was tall and somewhat slight.  Her head was large and overshadowed her body.  Her shoulders were a little stooped and her hair and eyes brown.  She was very quiet but beneath a placid exterior a continual ferment went on.

When she was a girl of sixteen and before she began to work in the store, Alice had an affair with a young man.  The young man, named Ned Currie, was older than Alice.  He, like George Willard, was employed on the Winesburg Eagle and for a long time he went to see Alice almost every evening.  Together the two walked under the trees through the streets of the town and talked of what they would do with their lives.  Alice was then a very pretty girl and Ned Currie took her into his arms and kissed her.  He became excited and said things he did not intend to say and Alice, betrayed by her desire to have something beautiful come into her rather narrow life, also grew excited.  She also talked.  The outer crust of her life, all of her natural diffidence and reserve, was torn away and she gave herself over to the emotions of love.  When, late in the fall of her sixteenth year, Ned Currie went away to Cleveland where he hoped to get a place on a city newspaper and rise in the world, she wanted to go with him.  With a trembling voice she told him what was in her mind.  “I will work and you can work,” she said.  “I do not want to harness you to a needless expense that will prevent your making progress.  Don’t marry me now.  We will get along without that and we can be together.  Even though we live in the same house no one will say anything.  In the city we will be unknown and people will pay no attention to us.”