"It's late. We should go home. I'll go home with you, Rachel, and talk."
The thin woman, watching Brander anxiously, approached and seized his arm.
"All right," the artist whispered. "We'll go now."
Rachel felt a relief as Brander passed out of the door with the woman.
"He disturbs you," Tesla commented. She nodded her head. Words seemed to have abandoned her. There was almost a necessity for silence. They walked out, leaving Myers still at his desk.
In the deserted streets Rachel walked beside Tesla. She felt tired. "He's never tired," she thought, her eyes glancing at the stocky figure. He wasn't talking as he said he would.
The night felt sad and cold. A dead March night. If not for Emil, what? "Perhaps I'll kill myself. There's nothing now. I'm always alone. No to-morrows."
In the evenings she came to the office to meet Emil for supper because there was nothing else to do. Emil seemed like an old man, always preoccupied, his eyes always burning with preoccupations. After supper he usually walked home with her, talking to her of poor people. There seemed no hatred in him, no argument. Poor people in broken houses. Christ came and gave them a God. Now the revolution would come with flaming embittered eyes but wearing a gentle smile for the poor people in broken houses, and give them rest and happiness.
But to-night he was silent. When they had walked several blocks he began to talk without looking at her.
"Come with me," he asked. "I live alone in a little house. We can be happy there. You have nobody."