Jay called from Grand Central and learned that the mail-boat from the Caribbean would dock during the afternoon. Ringing the Park Avenue apartment, he learned that Mr. and Mrs. Lytle were in but, naturally, had not yet arisen, so he merely left word that he was in town and put them from his mind for the morning.
He walked down Fifth Avenue, in the clear spring sunshine, toward his father's New York office, with his mind on the boat, near Sandy Hook, bearing Lida from the languor and overplayed palms of the Caribbean.
At the office door, lettered like the doors in Chicago, he halted momentarily with a sudden pulse surprising him. What was it? Open a door like this, and she looks up at you, his pulse said. But she's not beyond this door; she's not here. Ellen Powell, that was. What had she become to him? He never had felt this in Chicago, where alway he had opened the door and found her.
A very different sort of girl, in Ralph's office, informed him that Mr. Armiston was not yet down but might be, shortly. Ralph kept New York office hours, not those of Chicago.
Jay waited by a window which gave a glimpse of the Hudson, a ferry and a long, four-funnelled liner outward bound. How she'd thrill at the sight of it! How she'd thrill to New York, which she had never seen! He imagined, standing here beside him, Ellen Powell gazing
