" She took down her sopping handkerchief and lifted
her warm, wet face. So I kissed Peggy. And I am going on the 7.20
morning train.
It is now ten o'clock. My suit-case is packed, my ticket is bought, but
Tom has not come back, and the worst of it is he can't get back
to-night. He telephoned between courses at his dinner that he had
accepted an invitation to go home for the night with one of the men
they are dining. It seems he is a "person of importance"--there is a
big order behind the junket, and Tom has gone home with him to talk it
over. The ridiculous thing about it is that I forget where he was
going. Of course I could telephone to the hotel and find out, but men
don't like telephoning wives--at least, my man doesn't. It makes it
rather hard, going on this trip without kissing Tom good-bye. I had
half made up my mind to throw the whole thing over, but Peggy is pretty
young; she has a long life before her; there is a good deal at stake.
So Tom and I kissed by electricity, and he said that it was all right,
and to go ahead, and the other absurd thing about that is that Tom
didn't ask me for my New York address, and I forgot to tell him. We are
like two asteroids spinning through space, neither knowing the other's
route or destination. In point of fact, I shall register at "The
Sphinx," that nice ladies' hotel where mere man is never admitted.
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