His face lighted up. He pulled in his chair to me.
“Her hands—did you notice her hands? I have a drawing of them somewhere. I’ll show it to you——” He stopped short: Then—“What is your name?” he asked me.
“Jenny. Jenny Summer.”
He considered that fact for a moment and put it aside again.
“I’d like you to see it. Anita will want it for that damned scrap-book of hers. She’ll be worrying at me—they all will.”
“You won’t let it go?” I said quickly.
He shook his head.
“No. But they can’t understand why. They can’t understand anything. They thought I was mad just now. So I was, for that matter. To see her again, you know—to see her again——”
“I know,” I said.
He laughed nervously.