New York had a look of the rural. Now that few people were about, trees claimed more attention and spread abroad their branches. Grass-plots in squares showed conspicuously. It almost seemed that on these islands of greenness, lapped by sun-scorched pavement, one ought to see rabbits hopping.
When he reached the apartment, she wasn’t ready. From somewhere down the passage she called to him: “Good-morning, Meester Deek. You’re early.” Then he heard her tripping footsteps crossing and recrossing a room, and the busy rustling of packing.
He leant out of the window, drinking in the sunny stillness. A breeze ruffled the Hudson. The Palisades shone fortress-like. Far below, dwarfed by distance beneath trees of the Drive, horsemen moved sluggishly like wound-up toys. A steamer, heavily loaded with holidaymakers, churned its way up-river; he caught the faint cheerfulness of brazen music. The tension of endeavor was relaxed; a spirit of peace and gayety was in the air. His thoughts went back to Eden Row, lying blinking and quaint in the Sabbath calm. In this city of giant energies he smiled a little wistfully at the remembrance.
He listened. The sounds of packing hadn’t stopped. Time grew short; it wasn’t for him to hurry her. Secretly he hoped she would lose her train; they might steal an extra day together.
She entered radiant and laughing. “You’ll think I always keep you waiting. Come on. We’ve got to rush for it.”
“But let me have a look at you.”
“Time for that on the way to the station.”
When he had seen the luggage put on, he jumped in beside her—really beside her, for she sat well out of the corner.
“Almost like a honeymoon,” he laughed, “with all the bags.”
“A spoilt honeymoon.” As they made a sharp turn into Broadway she was thrown against him. “Poor old you, not to be coming!”