Watching the three of them with sphinxlike wisdom, there had been Santa, her womanhood clamorous and ignored. What had she made of it? Had she found material for humor in their temporary heroism?
And so he came back to his first question—what had he been doing? In constructing the barricade of bread, he had been preventing Varensky from dying; in preventing Varensky from dying, he had been raising a barricade between himself and Anna. Having bankrupted his pocket, he had bankrupted his heart. In spite of warnings, he had gone in search of the vanishing point, where the parallel rails of possibility and desire seem to join—the point at which, to quote Varensky's words, “The safety of the journey ends.” It was the goal of every man who wrecks himself in the hope that he may save a world.
How long had he been sitting there brooding? He was cold. The square of window had turned from jet to gray. Furtively he glanced behind him. Anna was gazing down on him.
VII
She was dressed for a journey, muffled in furs. Her left hand was gloved; her right extended. His heart turned coward. Surely he had earned his reward. He commenced to rise, pushing back his chair. The steady blueness of her eyes held him.
“Good-by,” she said. “I should have left without saying good-by, if I had not known I could trust you.”
“But you can trust me. It's because you can trust me that you must stay.”
“I can't stay.”
“Why not?”
“We made a bargain. Do you remember? That until we were free, we would play the game by him—that we would even guard him against himself. You told me once, 'I wouldn't be friends with a woman who couldn't be loyal.' I'm trying to be loyal.” She caught her breath. “He's gone.”