Why, just
think of him at the studio!"
But Mamie, whatever her private views, was loyal to her employers. She
refused to be drawn into a discussion on the subject.
"Have you been downstairs with Mr. Keggs, Steve?"
"Yes. It was him that told me about all this. Say, Mame, we ain't seen
much of each other lately."
"No."
"Mighty little."
"Yes."
Having got as far as this, Steve should, of course, have gone
resolutely ahead. After all, it is not a very long step from telling a
girl in a hushed whisper with a shake in it that you have not seen much
of her lately to hinting that you would like to see a great deal more
of her in the future.
Steve was on the right lines, and he knew it; but that fatal lack of
nerve which had wrecked him on all the other occasions when he had got
as far as this undid him now. He relapsed into silence, and Mamie went
on sewing.
In a way, if you shut your eyes to the white tiles and the thermometer
and the brass knobs and the shower-bath, it was a peaceful scene; and
Steve, as he sat there and watched Mamie sew, was stirred by it. Remove
the white tiles, the thermometer the brass knobs, and the shower-bath,
and this was precisely the sort of scene his imagination conjured up
when the business of life slackened sufficiently to allow him to dream
dreams.
There he was, sitting in one chair; there was Mamie, sitting in
another; and there in the corner was the little white cot--well,
perhaps that was being a shade too prophetic; on the other hand, it
always came into these dreams of his.
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