"Of course I don't know. Run some sort of plant, I would guess."
"Nope," he replied, and his voice had not the low, ringing assurance he might have wished, but was a little too loud, a little too high. "Nothing but this car."
"I don't understand," she replied. "How do you mean?"
"I'm selling 'em. This is a demonstrator, and I am responsible for it."
"Oh, I see—well—isn't that nice!"
And somehow from that time on the evening grew chilly and less pleasant and clouds came up and obscured the soft velvet sky. In a very few minutes they turned about and went home.
She bid him a casual good-night.
When he climbed the stairs to his room about thirty minutes later, they seemed endless. His breath was coming short as he gained the top and a vast, sudden, sickening weariness swooped down upon his body and consumed it. As he passed the open window in the hall the night breeze made him shiver and he went chattering to bed. He pulled the covers up beneath his chin and realized that he had made a fool of himself, which somehow didn't matter much; realized that he was alone—just as much alone as ever—which mattered quite a lot. All this and the chill shivering and the vast, aching weariness. He fell asleep and dreamed of desolate wastes and wanderings and parching heat.