Deane turned to Roberts and was astonished to find that he was looking at her instead of the lovely window.
“It is as glorious as that other vault we passed,” she said quietly, amazed at his attitude.
“Yes,” he answered, still regarding her gravely, “and although beauty, to me, is but a dream gone by—a vagrant moment—a motion lost before it’s held—oddly, I find it stationary for one evening.” He paused and added, looking at her fixedly, “Even within a superb commercial painting.”
The chiming now covered the air with invisible shadows. There was an icy wind; and as Deane sensing its fury within the well-heated car, pulled her coat more tightly around her shoulders, Roberts again caught the perfume of the flowers she was wearing, and their fragrance seemed to him to become as audible—to have a resonance and vibration quite as definite as the chimes.
They spoke no more but continued down the Avenue until they came upon a children’s shop with such a pretty charm about it that Roberts stopped the car. For the shop’s display there was a miniature snowstorm—a tiny replica of the one outside which was increasing in density each moment. Amidst the artificial snow within the window were artificial children posed in different attitudes. One small boy had his hand raised against a snowman as though building him. A little girl stood by, just watching. And still another boy was stooped as though gathering more snow. The scene was such a dainty one that Roberts looked at it wistfully, with a reserved hunger that seemed to demand release; and Deane, fascinated, clasped her hands together. On the street a ragged boy, walking beside a hulk of a man, stopped for a moment to look quietly, but in silent despair at these happy children who played in the snow and wore such pretty clothes. He stared particularly at the little girl, with her long, blond curls and piquant face and her little dress and coat that were like a dream. But the man, resentful, cuffed the boy’s cheek roughly, pulling him along. The lad cringed. Deane thought she heard him cry out once and turned her face away; while Roberts, who had also witnessed the episode, started the car and drove on swiftly through the storm.
Near the lower part of the Avenue, just before they turned off on Deane’s street, they came upon a Christmas tree which had been set up in the courtyard of a large apartment hotel. The branches of the pine were straight and proud; and instead of the usual strings of many-colored lights which had dressed the other trees along the boulevard, on this, there were dull points of red under the boughs, or brilliant ones of green that stood far out, so awkwardly, that by their very misplacement the tree appeared to be native and uncut. It was without tinsel. There was only the snow. The wind and the shadows did the rest. The unusual reflections dwelt upon Deane’s face and Roberts turned to her impulsively.
“You are beautiful this evening, Deane,” he said.
She looked at him once more and smiled, although she was a bit perplexed. For some time she continued to gaze at him, watching the man, as vivid as the tree itself against the snow. Then abruptly, the notion came to her that his temperament might be flexible, and she lifted her head higher, as though challenging him. Her eyes were sparkling.
Roberts seemed frightened at first at her audacity and turned away in embarrassment. Then, looking back to meet her dancing eyes, he broke into a choppy laugh of singular amusement which Deane echoed. During the rest of the drive they were silent; but there was a tenuous bond of understanding between them; and when they reached Deane’s apartment, Roberts stopped the engine and placed his hand lightly on hers.