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After he had gone she came down again carrying a small hand-bag, 'phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station, boarded a 12.55 commuter's train, rode four hours with her burnt-umber head bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during a fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a deserted station, the size of a peach crate, called Crocusville.
I read it to her because I knew that all the printing-presses in the world were running to try to please her and some others. And I asked her about it. "I didn't quite catch the trains," said she. "How long was Mary in Crocusville?" "Ten hours and five minutes," I replied. "Well, then, the story may do," said Minnie. "But if she had stayed there a week Kappelman would have got his kiss."
Mary sat gloating in the new sensation of racking physical discomfort that the wooden chair brought her. Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr's. Jeremy's minor chords soothed her like the music of a tom-tom. "Why, oh why," she said to herself, "does some one not write words to it?" At eleven they went to church in Crocusville.
Somewhere there exists a great vault miles broad and miles long more capacious than the champagne caves of France. In that vault are stored the anticlimaxes that should have been tagged to all the stories that have been told in the world. I shall cheat that vault of one deposit. Minnie Brown, with her aunt, came from Crocusville down to the city to see the sights.
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