I told
him he would find me at home."
"Had you not better wait for him, then?"
"Oh, no. I only told him I should be at home as a sort of _facon de
parler_. He only comes when he thinks I am there--admirable person--and
I know you like to have old friends about. Good-by, dear."
"Good-by." She accepted his kiss listlessly, and when he had gone went
back to the window.
The window had become Lois Travers' vantage-point of life. From thence
she could overlook the bustling Madras square into which four streets
poured their unending stream, and build her fancies about each one of
the atoms as they passed unconsciously beneath her gaze. Some of the
faces were well known to her. They always passed at the time when she
took her sewing and sat by the window, pretending to work by the
fading glow of evening light, and about each she wove a simple little
story, always, or nearly always, happy. She imagined the men returning
from business to their homes. If there was ever a cloud upon their
brow, she smiled to think how the trouble would be brushed away by
loving hands; if their step were more than usually light and elastic,
her own heart grew lighter with the thought that they were hurrying
back to the source of their happiness.
Lois lived on the real or imagined joys of others. She clung to her
air castles in which her unknown heroes lived, building them more
beautifully, fitting them out with more perfect content, as her own
brick dwelling grew darker and more desolate.
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