"You oughtn't to do that. You'll get so thin
your girl won't know you."
Sam looked up, quickly. "How in thunderation did you know----?"
Pearlie was pinning on her hat, and she spoke succinctly, her
hatpins between her teeth: "You've been here two days now, and I
notice you dictate all your letters except the longest one, and
you write that one off in a corner of the writing-room all by
yourself, with your cigar just glowing like a live coal, and you
squint up through the smoke, and grin to yourself."
"Say, would you mind if I walked home with you?" asked Sam.
If Pearlie was surprised, she was woman enough not to show it.
She picked up her gloves and handbag, locked her drawer with a
click, and smiled her acquiescence. And when Pearlie smiled she
was awful. It was a glorious evening in the early summer,
moonless, velvety, and warm. As they strolled homeward, Sam told
her all about the Girl, as is the way of traveling men the world
over. He told her about the tiny apartment they had taken, and
how he would be on the road only a couple of years more, as this
was just a try-out that the firm always insisted on. And they
stopped under an arc light while Sam showed her the picture in
his watch as is also the way of traveling men since time
immemorial.
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