Electrified, his cramped body shot up from its crouch, and he
darted to the door.
Istra Nash stood there, tapping her foot on the sill with
apologetic haste in her manner. Abruptly she said:
"So sorry to bother you. I just wondered if you could let me
have a match? I'm all out."
"Oh _yes!_ Here's a whole box. Please take 'em. I got plenty
more." [Which was absolutely untrue.]
"Thank you. S' good o' you," she said, hurriedly. "G' night."
She turned away, but he followed her into the hall, bashfully
urging: "Have you been to another show? Gee! I hope you draw
a better one next time 'n the one about the guy with the nephew."
"Thank you."
She glanced back in the half dark hall from her door--some
fifteen feet from his. He was scratching at the wall-paper
with a diffident finger, hopeful for a talk.
"Won't you come in?" she said, hesitatingly.
"Oh, thank you, but I guess I hadn't better."
Suddenly she flashed out the humanest of smiles, her blue-gray
eyes crinkling with cheery friendship.
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