"And
it's positively heroic of Joe to drink that tea," she smiled to herself,
as she wrestled with her shirt waist sleeves and her jacket.
But out on the street she grew stern with herself. "Now don't go and do
any fool thing," she admonished. "Don't jump at conclusions. You aren't
Ernestine, and he isn't Karl. He's Joseph Tank--of all abominable names!
And he makes paper bags--of all ridiculous things! Tank's Paper Bags!"
she guessed _not!_ Suppose in some rash moment she did marry him. People
would say: "What business is your husband in?" And she would choke down
her rage and reply--"Why--why he makes paper bags!"
He was sitting there waiting for her, smiling. He was awfully good about
waiting for her, and about smiling. It was nice to sit down in this cool,
restful place and be looked after. He had a book which she had spoken
about the week before, and he had a little pin, a dear little thing with
a dog's head on it which he had seen in a window and thought should
belong to her. And he was on track of the finest collie in the United
States.
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