"Anson," she called, laughing a little.
"Just a minute," he answered from his bedroom ... then after a brief delay: "Now you can come in."
He had changed and was buttoning his vest. "This is my room," he said lightly. "How do you like it?"
She caught sight of Paula's picture on the wall and stared at it in fascination, just as Paula had stared at the pictures of Anson's childish sweethearts five years before. She knew something about Paula—sometimes she tortured herself with fragments of the story.
Suddenly she came close to Anson, raising her arms. They embraced. Outside the area window a soft artificial twilight already hovered, though the sun was still bright on a back roof across the way. In half an hour the room would be quite dark. The uncalculated opportunity overwhelmed them, made them both breathless, and they clung more closely. It was eminent, inevitable. Still holding one another, they raised their heads—their eyes fell together upon Paula's picture, staring down at them from the wall.
Suddenly Anson dropped his arms, and sitting down at his desk tried the drawer with a bunch of keys.
"Like a drink?" he asked in a gruff voice.
"No, Anson."
He poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, swallowed it, and then opened the door into the hall.
"Come on," he said.