Again he wanted to shout, to
run down into the street and embrace them. The strength in them seemed
to kiss, as with the kiss of a lover, the strength within himself and
when they had passed and the disorderly jangle of voices broke out
again he got on a car and went out to Edith's with his heart afire
with resolution.
Edith Carson's millinery shop was in the hands of a new owner. She had
sold out and fled. McGregor stood in the show room looking about him
at the cases filled with their feathery finery and at the hats along
the wall. The light from a street lamp that came in at the window
started millions of tiny motes dancing before his eyes.
Out of the room at the back of the shop--the room where he had seen
the tears of suffering in Edith's eyes--came a woman who told him of
Edith's having sold the business. She was excited by the message she
had to deliver and walked past the waiting man, going to the screen
door to stand with her back to him and look up the street.
Out of the corners of her eyes the woman looked at him. She was a
small black-haired woman with two gleaming gold teeth and with glasses
on her nose. "There has been a lovers' quarrel here," she told
herself.
"I have bought the store," she said aloud. "She told me to tell you
that she had gone.
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