“It’s getting late,” you say, understanding her. She nods and thinks with a new terror of arriving in a strange town. Nervous.
“I’m sorry,” you add. There is another silence. Some perverse shyness keeps her from saying anything. It is almost as if, against her own will, she waits for something fateful. But say no more. Pat her hand and settle back, looking up at the top of the car.
Slowly, followed by a mysterious growth of little green cabins, the porter approaches you, slamming down chair-covers, manipulating linen.
Sit up with a new briskness.
“I’m going to the smoker,” you announce. “But listen, I’m not going to say good-bye.” She looks at you and waits. Her tongue won’t move; is it curiosity? Nervous....
“I’m coming in to say good-night,” say, your eyes fixed on hers. “I have a book to lend you. So long.” Rise, and then put your hand over hers again. She simply stares at you.
“You’re a nice kid,” you observe, and walk away.
Slowly she stands and picks up her suitcase as the porter reaches her chair in his constructive progress. Slowly she walks down the aisle to the Ladies’ Room. A sudden flush of thought as she gets there—she drops the bag and looks into the mirror, horror-stricken. Why didn’t she say something? What should she do now? Then as she thinks, she feels better. He’s simply coming to say good-night. Sure, he’ll probably try to kiss her, but—oh, well, stop thinking. Just the same she’ll wear her dressing gown to bed; no use giving him ideas. Everything seems so different on a train; if it would stop making a noise and let you think straight.... Ships that pass in the night. What’s the difference?
19. SHE LOVED ME FOR THE DANGERS
TYPE: