Our other neighbor said he must have got into a car. I asked Senda if it
was likely he would go home without trying to find us, and she replied
that he might; but when we had all looked at one another for a moment she
dded, with a distinct tremor of voice--and I saw that she feared
temptation and conscience had unsettled his wits--"I sink he iss not ve'y
vell. I sink he is maybe--I ton't know, but--I--I sink he iss not ve'y
vell." She averted her face.
She agreed with us, of course, that there was no call for alarm, and Mrs.
Smith and I had to plead that we could not, the six of us, let her go
home, away downtown, alone, while we should go as far the other way and
remain all night ignorant of her husband's whereabouts. So our next door
neighbor, my wife and I went with her, and his wife and the Fontenettes
went home; for a conviction probably common to us all, but which no one
cared to put into downright words, was that the entomologist, whether
dazed or not, might wander up to one of our homes in preference to his
own. In the street-car and afterward for a full hour at her house, Senda
was very silent, only saying now a little and then a little more.
"_He_ iss all right! _He_ vill sure come.
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