At length they concluded their meal--quite a modest repast and
comparatively reasonable in price--and as they rose to leave Morris
looked toward the door and gasped involuntarily. He could hardly believe
his senses, for there blocking the entrance stood a familiar bearded
figure. It was Marcus Bramson--the conservative, back-number Marcus
Bramson--and against him leaned a tall, stout person not quite as young
as her clothes and wearing a large picture hat. Obviously this was not
Mrs. Bramson, and the blush with which Marcus Bramson recognized Morris
only confirmed the latter's suspicions.
Mr. Bramson murmured a few words to the youthfully-dressed person at his
side, and she glared venomously at Morris, who precipitately followed
his companion to the automobile. Five minutes afterward he was chatting
with the lady as they sped along Riverside Drive.
"Duluth must be a fine town," he suggested.
"It is indeed," the lady agreed. "I have some relatives living there."
"That should make it pleasant for you, lady," Morris went on, and
thereafter the conversation touched on relatives, whereupon Morris
favored his companion with a few intimate details of his family life
that caused her to laugh until she was completely out of breath. To be
sure, Morris could see nothing remarkably humorous about it himself, and
when one or two anecdotes intended to be pathetic were received with
tears of mirth rather than sympathy he felt somewhat annoyed.
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