He was playing a
little game with Anna - a light-hearted matter of a glance now and
then caught and held, a touched hand, very casually done, and an
admiring comment now and then on her work. And Anna was blossoming
like a flower. She sat up late to make fresh white blouses for the
office, and rose early to have abundance of time to dress. She had
taken to using a touch of rouge, too, although she put it on after
she reached the mill, and took it off before she started for home.
Her father, sullen and irritable these days, would have probably
beaten her for using it.
But Anna had gone, and a telephone call to Marion Hayden had told
him she was not at home. He thought it possible she had gone to
the country club, and accepted his father's suggestion of golf
willingly.
From the moment he left the mill Anna had left his mind. He was at
that period when always in the back of his mind there was a girl.
During the mill hours the girl was Anna, because she was there. In
the afternoon it was Marion, just then, but even at that there were
entire evenings when, at the theater, a pretty girl in the chorus
held and absorbed his entire attention - or at a dance a debutante,
cloudy and mysterious in white chiffon, bounded his universe for
a few hours.
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