In returning home each Wednesday night, Waymark
always sought the speediest and quietest route, unwilling to be brought
in contact with that life of the streets which at other times delighted
him. Ida's note seemed a summons from that world which, for the moment,
he held at a distance. But the call was not to be silenced at his will.
He began to wonder about her life during the past half-year. Why had she
written just now, after so long a silence? Where, and under what
circumstances, should he meet her? Did she think to find him the same as
when they last talked together?
Through the night he woke constantly, and always with thoughts busy
about Ida. In the morning his first impulse was to re-read her
message; received so carelessly, it had in the meantime become of
more account, and Waymark laughed in his wonted way as he saw
himself thus swayed between forces he could not control. The
ordinary day's task was neglected, and he impatiently waited for the
hour when he could be sure of finding Ida at home. The address was
at Fulham, and, on reaching it, he found a large new block of the
kind known as model lodging-houses. Ida's number was up at the very
top. When he knocked, the door opened immediately, and she stood
there, holding out her hand to him.
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