An Invitation

A full month slipped away after the little excursion down the river
before Dick saw Lena Quincy again. In fact he had almost forgotten her.
That day, if it was recalled at all, was chiefly memorable because it
marked a change in his attitude toward his chosen occupation. It seemed
that revelation after revelation poured upon him. The intricate threads
of city politics fascinated him more and more as he began to understand
whence they led and whither.

But one day on the street Dick met and passed Lena. She gave him a
little bow--wistful, it seemed to him, and she looked tired and thin.
His conscience smote him. He had really meant to do a common kindly
thing to cheer this girl, but it had slipped his mind. That night he
hunted up her address in his note-book and found his way to the dismal
lodging-house.

Four cheap-looking young persons were loitering in the parlor, two were
drumming on a piano that was out of tune, and the room smelled fusty.
The assembled group giggled and disappeared upon his entrance, and Lena,
when she came down the stairs, flushing with embarrassment and pleasure,
looked as much out of place as he felt. He stood before her, hat in
hand. It would be impossible to talk to her in such a room.

"Miss Quincy," he said, "it is such a perfect night that it is neither
more nor less than self-torture to stay indoors. Can't you be a bit
unconventional and go out with me to the band concert in the park?" He
remembered that she went about with the oaf.