“But she said she didn’t care,” he thought.
III
They went on in a stream of other cars, like a flotilla of lighted ships, in the mild summer night. He hated the whole thing—the dust, the reek of gasoline, the tawdriness and staleness of the undertaking. He had wanted something better. His ardent spirit had groped toward an ideal, and, when he thought he had found it, it was only this!
It was as if he had gone into a dim temple, ready to worship, and suddenly a flood of garish light had come, and he saw that it was not a temple at all, but a sorry palace of pleasure. He lit another cigarette from the first one.
“I’m—sorry I came!” said the girl beside him, in a shaky voice.
He turned, but it was too dark to see her.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, very much taken aback.
“I didn’t want to come,” she went on. “I told you, but you made me, and now—and now—you see—”
He quite realized that he had been behaving very ill, not even trying to talk to her. After all, it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t know what a fool he had been.
“I don’t see at all,” he said. “I—I’m very glad you’re here.”