"Fatter than an alderman. Runs a gas works or something in Detroit. Married. One kid."
Anna laughed. "You sound like an almanac of dooms."
"Well, all married but me—little Eddie, the boy bachelor, faithful unto death to the memories of his childhood. Do you remember the night we ran Mazurine's out of ice-cream?"
This was another world, another Anna. She closed her eyes dreamily to the movement of the dance and music—delicious drugs.
"Faster," she whispered.
They broke into quicker steps. "Erik.... Erik.... my own. Love me again. Come back to me...." Still in her thought, but fainter, deeper down. Not words but a sigh that moved to the rhythm of the music.
"And how may children have you?"
She answered without emotion, as if she were talking with a distant part of herself. "There was a little boy. He died as a baby. We haven't any."
Deep, kindly eyes looking at her as they danced. "I'm so sorry, Anna."
She whispered again, "Faster!" A shadow over his face. She must be careful of his eyes—eyes that laughed, but keen, almost as keen as Erik's. "My Erik ... my own...." It was all a dream, a nightmare of her own inventing. Nothing had happened. Imaginings. Erik loved her. Why else should he weep and kiss her when he thought her asleep? He loved her, he loved her!