As they walked along, choosing the darker streets, neither The Kitten nor Herrick spoke. Her fingers locked tight on his and Herrick walked as if in a dream toward a fixed point. At the corner of the street where Vicky and The Kitten had a small flat, Herrick stopped.
"Is Vicky home?"
"No. He went to Tulare a month ago."
The room was dark except for a long, white bar across the floor from a street lamp outside. Beside the Morris chair Herrick knelt and put his arms about The Kitten.
All the miniature independence was gone. She clung to him sobbing:
"I can't stand it any more. I love you and you're cruel, terribly cruel."
There was all the old abandon, the absolute surrender in the figure trembling at his touch. Of all the women he had known The Kitten had loved most passionately, most recklessly, finding no flaw, asking no change, holding him to no path. She loved him absolutely, utterly, as he was. And it had bored him.
"I know, Boy, you only did it to hurt me. You don't love her. You know you don't. You can't. Boy Blue," she whispered, her lips against his cheek, "promise your Kittycat you'll never see her again. Then I'll forget all the hurt—every single teeny bit."
With his arms about her, Herrick looked into the dark and saw Jean as he had left her, only a short time before, under the acacia, part of the clean night. In the gray fog by the sea, made more vital by the immense sadness and beauty of it. The generous giving of her hands to the lonely little boy, such a small, pitiful and generous gift. Jean with her unshakable faith, her courage and her coldness. He felt suddenly old, and afraid of his own fear.
"Are you satisfied now, Boy Blue? You've hurt me enough—till I've made a fool of myself. But I don't care. Silly, silly Boy, he ran away, and then he came back. He will always come back, always."