Kitty came home at nine that night, dreadfully tired. She had that day
been rocked by so many emotions. She had viewed the parade from the
windows of a theatrical agency, and she had cheered and cried like
everybody else. Her eyes still smarted, and her throat betrayed her
every time she recalled what she had seen. Those boys!
Loneliness. She had dined downtown, and on the way home the shadow had
stalked beside her. Loneliness. Never before had these rooms seemed so
empty, empty. If God had only given her a brother and he had marched in
that glorious parade, what fun they two would be having at this moment!
Empty rooms; not even a pet.
Loneliness. She had been a silly little fool to stand so aloof, just
because she was poor and lived in a faded locality. She mocked herself.
Poor but proud, like the shopgirl in the movies. Denied herself
companionship because she was ashamed of her genteel poverty. And now
she was paying for it. Silly little fool! It wasn't as if she did not
know how to make and keep friends. She knew she had attractions. Just a
senseless false pride. The best friends in the world, after a series of
rebuffs, would drop away. Her mother's friends never called any more,
because of her aloofness. She had only a few girl friends, and even
these no doubt were beginning to think her uppish.
She did not take off her hat and coat. She wandered through the empty
rooms, undecided. If she went to a movie the rooms would be just as
lonely when she returned. Companionship. The urge of it was so strong
that there was a temptation to call up someone, even someone she had
rebuffed. She was in the mood to confess everything and to make an
honest attempt to start all over again--to accept friendship and let
pride go hang. Impulsively she started for the telephone, when the
doorbell rang.
Immediately the sense of loneliness fell away. Another chapter in
the great game of hide and seek that had kept her from brooding until
to-night? The doorbell carried a new message these days. Nine o'clock.
Who could be calling at that hour? She had forgotten to advise Cutty
of the fact that someone had gone through the apartment. She could not
positively assert the fact. Those articles in her bureau she herself
might have disturbed. She might have taken a handkerchief in a hurry,
hunted for something under the lingerie impatiently. Still she could
not rid herself of the feeling that alien hands had been rifling her
belongings. Not Bernini, decidedly.