"Sorry I've been so much trouble."
"Perhaps we ought to have shown you which end shoots."
"Good-night."
If Kitty had any doubt as to the wisdom of her decision, the cold,
gloomy rooms of her apartment dissipated them. She wandered through the
rooms, musing, calling back animated scenes. What would the spirit of
her mother say? Had she doddered between Conover and Cutty? Perhaps.
But she had been one of the happy few who had guessed right. Singular
thought: her mother would have been happy with Cutty, too.
Oh, the relief of knowing what the future was going to be! She took off
her hat and tossed it upon the table. The good things of life, and a
good comrade.
Food. The larder would be empty and there was her breakfast to consider.
She passed out into the kitchen, wrote out a list of necessities, and
put it on the dumb waiter. Now for the dishes she had so hurriedly left.
She rolled up her sleeves, put on the apron, and fell to the task. After
such a night--dish-washing! She laughed. It was a funny old world.
Pauses. Perhaps she should have gone to a hotel, away from all familiar
objects. Those flatirons intermittently pulled her eyes round. Her fancy
played tricks with her whenever her glance touched the window. Faces
peering in. In a burst of impatience she dropped the dish towel, hurried
to the window, and threw it up. Black emptiness!... Cutty, crossing the
platform with Hawksley on his shoulders. She saw that, and it comforted
her.
She finished her work and started for bed. But first she entered the
guest room and turned on the lights. Olga. She had intended to ask him
who Olga was.
A great pity. They might have been friends. The back of her hand went
to her lips but did not touch them. She could not rub away those burning
kisses--that is, not with the back of her hand. Vividly she saw him
fiddling bareheaded in front of the Metropolitan Opera House. It seemed,
though, that it had happened years ago. A great pity. The charm of that
frolic would abide with her as long as she lived. A brave man, too.
Hadn't he left her with a gay wave of the hand, not knowing, for want of
strength, if he could make the detour of the block? That took courage.
His journey halfway across the world had taken courage. Yet he could so
basely disillusion her. It was not the kiss; it was the smile. She had
seen that smile before, born of evil. If only he had spoken!