It was only after she had walked three blocks that she began to know Wally was dead; dead as everyone was dead that she read about in the newspapers. It was not a new thing, after all. Wally was dead and Mother was dead and Billy the Kid was dead. All of them, all dead and buried. The weight of horror lifted a little and she began to think that she would miss Wally. She could cry in earnest.
She reached the apartment: the door was locked and she had forgotten the key. Sobbing with increasing vigour, she lifted the screen from the front window, raised the sash, and climbed in. She found the sofa in the dark and lay down.
Outside in the street an automobile passed, swishing by the wall. Someone was carrying a Victrola in it and playing a record. She remembered the Ball tonight and sat up, with her head throbbing. What time was it? Had Harvey called before she got home? No, it couldn’t be that late. She leaped up and turned on the light. Eight o’clock, and the room was in a mess of cigarette stubs and clothes flung over all the chairs. Flo must have put on her costume in a hurry.
The ’phone suddenly began to ring, and she picked it up.
“Gin?” It was Harvey. “I’ve been calling for hours: they said at the office you were in town all afternoon. Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, I went riding.”
“Well, gosh, I thought you’d run out on me. Are you ready?”
“Listen, Harvey, I can’t go.” She paused, then repeated, “I can’t.”
“What? Why not? Are you sick? You sound sick. What——”
“No, but something terrible has happened.”