“And looking at Jerry,” added Joy.
“And looking at Jerry,” he said gravely, repeating the performance.
“If you don’t like younger or older women, where do I come in?” Jerry demanded.
“You don’t,” he told her; “you are neither young nor old; you are immortal.”
At length they rose, and Joy went with Jerry while Jerry threw everything into her suitcase and crushed it shut.
“It won’t be anything but so-long,” said Jerry; “I’ll be coming over to Boston soon to get the rest of my wardrobe.”
“I’ll send it to you.”
“No—I’ll want to come. . . . Joy—you’ve been the only real girl friend I ever had—and now you’ve given me everything that there is to hang onto in this world.”
She said good-bye to them by the elevator downstairs, and watched them vanish through the same revolving doors that Jerry had helped speed around so merrily—was it only two days ago? They walked together as if they were still in an expectant dream . . . in a sort of awed breathlessness.
Joy suddenly knew that, of all lots in life, the lot of the looker-on, the passive spectator, was the hardest. To see worlds of glory pass, which she had to tell herself were not for her. She packed her bag, checked out and climbed on the midnight as soon as it was open. Félicie came at the last minute, with Greg carrying her suitcase into the train and then stopping for a prolonged farewell while the train was moving. The three girls had engaged a section, one to sleep in the upper and two on the lower, and she was astonished to find Joy alone in the lower with the upper pushed back out of the way.