Here it is."
Gloria looked down at the card that bore a few lines indifferently
traced. But what her eyes met caused the color to drift from her face.
"Are you _sure_, Dinney?" she said sharply to the boy. "Are you _sure_?
Quick!" A faintness was seizing her.
"Sure," answered the boy.
The girl laid a trembling hand upon the door. "I will get the money for
you, Dinney, when I know you are dead right."
The voice was not the voice Dinney knew. Looking at the girl, he saw
that tears had sprung to her eyes. She was fumbling blindly with the
latch-key.
"Miss Gloria," he said, in an awed voice, as he took the key and fitted
it for her, "don't you go to feeling like that." Suddenly he was a man
in his protective earnestness. "It ain't nothin' to you."
But Gloria had passed him and was already ascending the broad flight of
stairs leading from the reception hall. She had forgotten her key, she
had forgotten to close the door. Dinney thoughtfully took the key out
and placed it on a stand near. Then closing the door after him, he went
slowly down the steps.
Somehow the brightness had gone from the day--he knew not why. But
it was gone. He turned toward Pleasant Street--Gloria's "Treeless
Street"--but there was no whistle now upon his lips.
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