sitting room behind. They wouldn't interfere with you at all,” she added hastily. “Christine's father would build a little balcony at the side for them, a sort of porch, and they'd sit there in the evenings.”
Behind Sidney's carefully practical tone the man read appeal. Never before had he realized how narrow the girl's world had been. The Street, with but one dimension, bounded it! In her perplexity, she was appealing to him who was practically a stranger.
And he knew then that he must do the thing she asked. He, who had fled so long, could roam no more. Here on the Street, with its menace just across, he must live, that she might work. In his world, men had worked that women might live in certain places, certain ways. This girl was going out to earn her living, and he would stay to make it possible. But no hint of all this was in his voice.
“I shall stay, of course,” he said gravely. “I—this is the nearest thing to home that I've known for a long time. I want you to know that.”
So they moved their puppets about, Anna and Harriet, Christine and her husband-to-be, Dr. Ed, even Tillie and the Rosenfelds; shifted and placed them, and, planning, obeyed inevitable law.
“Christine shall come, then,” said Sidney forsooth, “and we will throw out a balcony.”
So they planned, calmly ignorant that poor Christine's story and Tillie's and Johnny Rosenfeld's and all the others' were already written among the things that are, and the things that shall be hereafter.
“You are very good to me,” said Sidney.
When she rose, K. Le Moyne sprang to his feet.
Anna had noticed that he always rose when she entered his room,—with fresh towels on Katie's day out, for instance,—and she liked him for it. Years ago, the men she had known had shown this courtesy to their women; but the Street regarded such things as affectation.
“I wonder if you would do me another favor? I'm afraid you'll take to avoiding me, if I keep on.”
“I don't think you need fear that.”
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