"Good-night." Jean opened the gate before he could do it for her and passed out.
"Good-night." Jerome watched her swing away, fainter and fainter through the dusk.
He did not go back again to the house, but to the farthest corner of the garden, beyond reach of the noise and lights. Here it was still and peaceful among the growing things, so still, that he seemed to be the only thing in motion on the earth, poised in ether. Time took on a quality of space, and incidents, some quite forgotten, rose near, like objects close to hand. He could see through time, all about him, back down the years, to his own wedding night. And, as he had not been since then, he was alone again with Helen.
How adorably clinging and frightened she had been, trusting in his wisdom, so little more than her own. What wild emotions had gripped him, almost as frightened as she, what longing and what desire and what denial all bound into a wonderful exaltation to make Helen happy always, to keep her trust! To hold her safe in the great love that throbbed and beat in him almost beyond his power to calm to the degree of Helen's white shyness.
He had done his best, even when the exaltation had gone, and only deep affection and tender loyalty were left for the clinging little thing who had remained to the end, the least reluctant and fearful.
The day when Alice had been laid in his arms. He had scarcely noticed her, because Helen was slipping so quietly away. And the months afterwards, stabbing remorse as if he had killed Helen, and long periods when he had forgotten her altogether, been quite absorbed in his work, Alice, and the wonderful fact of living.
Years since then. Happy years full of work and Alice.... Now Alice had gone and Sidney was only another man like himself, with all the weakness and hidden places in every man.
Then he thought of Jean, as she had looked at supper. She, too, was full of hidden places and contradictions. There was nothing simple, no absolute unity anywhere. Suddenly Jerome felt chilly. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past one. He stopped and listened. The house was silent. They had all gone, then, while he walked in the garden.
Jerome went back. The victrola was in the middle of the floor, the records scattered about on top of the piano. The room was littered with scraps of bonbons and crushed flowers; dirty saucers, half filled with sherbet, marked a second supper.
Jerome turned out the lights and closed the door. Life was a little like the room, he felt, filled with the tag ends of others' leavings.