Outside, in the corridor, David remembered to put on his hat. Happiness
and a normal occupation, yes. But no shock.
Nevertheless, he felt vaguely comforted, and as though it had helped to
bring the situation out into the open and discuss it. He had carried his
burden alone for ten years, or with only the additional weight of Lucy's
apprehensions. He wandered out into the city streets, and found himself,
some time later, at the railway station, without remembering how he got
there.
Across from the station was a large billboard, and on it the name of
Beverly Carlysle and her play, "The Valley." He stood for some time and
looked at it, before he went in to buy his ticket. Not until he was in
the train did he realize that he had forgotten to get his lunch.
He attended to his work that evening as usual, but he felt very tired,
and Lucy, going in at nine o'clock, found him dozing in his chair, his
collar half choking him and his face deeply suffused. She wakened him
and then, sitting down across from him, joined him in the vigil that was
to last until they heard the car outside.
She had brought in her sewing, and David pretended to read. Now and then
he looked at his watch.
At midnight they heard the car go in, and the slamming of the stable
door, followed by Dick's footsteps on the walk outside. Lucy was very
pale, and the hands that held her sewing twitched nervously. Suddenly
she stood up and put a hand on David's shoulder.
Dick was whistling on the kitchen porch.