"Have you a match? I—think—I'd better—leave a note." Against the weight holding her back, Jean forced herself forward toward the front room, lit palely in the light from the street lamps far below. Gregory could see her outlined in the hot blackness. He turned and closed the outer door.
"Haven't you a match?" Jean groped in the space before her, for Gregory was crossing the kitchen now, was coming to her.
"Haven't you—one—match?"
"No," Gregory answered at random, "no." His mouth was parched, although his whole body was bathed in cold damp.
Jean's hand touched a little brass match safe under the wall gas-bracket. Her fingers closed on it, and for a moment she stood gripping it, leaning against the bamboo table under the bracket. Then a yellow glare absorbed the darkness, and Jean sat down at the table. Gregory drew one quick, deep breath and moistened his lips.
Jean found a scrap of paper and a pencil in her handbag, and the pencil, obeying a law of its own, moved. Jean folded the note and stuck it in a corner of the mirror. If Rachael came home she must see it.
"There." Jean rose and stood with her hand on the gas-cock. "If you'll light the light on the landing first—it's just outside, it's hard negotiating this labyrinth."
Gregory obeyed. Jean turned out the gas and followed. They went down the stairs in silence. Without a word they walked through the crowded street and turned west to the nearest Subway. At the entrance Gregory stopped.
"I think I'll take the El. It's just as near for me and a lot cooler. Good-night. And don't abscond with the strike benefits."
Jean nodded. "No. I won't. And don't put a pergola on the auditorium."