Once she had hurriedly left a Subway train because of a fancied
likeness to Roy Kemble in a young fellow across the aisle. Even now
there were days when fancied resemblances seem to people the crowds.
"Why, Harry Calvert!"
"Hello," he said in the tempo of no great surprise, but purpling up into
his lightish hair. "I know you. You're Lilly Becker."
"Harry, I cannot believe my eyes! I haven't seen you since you were in
knickers. And to think we remembered each other! Come here a minute out
of the crowd. I want to talk to you."
He followed her with some reluctance and a great sheepishness out of
Broadway into quieter Thirty-fourth Street, twirling his hat, his
nervousness growing.
"You look fine, Lilly."
"What are you doing here, Harry? How is your grandma? St. Louis?"
She could have embraced, cried over him, the loneliness of years seeming
to rush to a head.
"Gramaw and I live here."
"Harry, not really!"
"Nearly two years, now."
"Where?"
"'Way out near Tremont Avenue."
"And you, Harry, what do you do?"
"I was window dresser for a gents' furnishing store up to a few weeks
ago, but it--it changed hands.
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