"Boy Blue! Franklin! Herrick!"
The racket was deafening. The Outlanders jumped on chairs to see what was happening. Flop corraled a waiter hurrying by with a demijohn of wine and took it way from him.
"This is on the house, Pietro. We drink to the return of the lost sheep."
A waiter brought Herrick a chair. He took it, and walking deliberately about the table, placed it next to The Kitten's. There was much laughing and some quick looks interchanged and The Kitten shrugged as if the matter did not concern her in the least, and continued to talk to another man across Herrick's back. The enthusiasm, diverted for a moment from its channel, went back. The Kitten finished what she had been saying and was forced at last to meet Herrick's eyes. She tried to hold the contempt in them, but it was useless. The corners of her scarlet lips trembled. Herrick's hand took hers under the table.
"Don't be silly, Kittycat. We wouldn't keep it up, you know...."
Two hours later The Bunch went singing up the hill to Flop's. Herrick and The Kitten turned down a side street. Herrick walked with the light, springing step that had reminded Jean of the earth and wide spaces. The Kitten skimmed along beside him, clinging to his arm. At the foot of the stairs he lifted her, and carried her up. He put her in the Morris chair and knelt beside her. Every motion was a repetition of the last time he had knelt so. It was all exactly the same, even to the bar of light from the street lamp, and the fine, tired lines about The Kitten's mouth.
The Kitten bent and lifted his face from her knees.
"Why did you do it, Boy?"
"I don't know, Kitten."
She drew his head to her shoulder and stroked his hair quietly. There was no claim in her touch, no insistence, only peace. The Kitten was weary, too.