When she looked, it was straight
at him--appeal but also defiance.
"I don't ask anything of you," she said, "we are both free. And I wanted to
see you. I was sick of all those others--up there. I've never
had--had--this out of my mind. And I've come. And I can see you sometimes.
I won't be in the way."
Howard went over to the window and stared out into the lights and shadows
of the leafy Square. When he turned again she had lighted and was smoking
one of his cigarettes.
"Well," he said smiling down at her, "Why not? Put on a street gown and
we'll go out and get supper and talk it over."
She sprang up, her face alight. She was almost running toward the door.
Midway she stopped, turned and came slowly back. She put one of her arms
upon his shoulder--a slender, cool, smooth, white arm with the lace of the
wide sleeve slipping away from it. She turned her face up until her mouth,
like a rosebud, was very near his lips. There was appeal in her eyes.
"I'm very, very glad to see you," Howard said as he kissed her.
* * * * *
And so Howard's life was determined for the next four years.
He worked well at his profession. He read a great deal. He wrote fiction
and essays in desultory fashion and got a few things printed in the
magazines.
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