Wilfred thought: She knows that normal men have a moment of tenderness now. But not me. I feel nothing. He shook his head, and drew away from her.
“Don’t you like me?”
“You’re all right!” said Wilfred.
She tried to wheedle more money out of him. Wilfred shook his head.
“Well, will you come to see me again?”
“Sure!” said Wilfred.
She slipped a card into his hand. “That’s my home address. It’s nicer there than these Raines Law joints. If you come in the afternoon I can give you more time. . . .”
Wilfred walked home, musing. His brain was active and cool. From a point at a little distance outside himself, he surveyed the scene in the hotel bedroom, and grinned. The girl’s attitude had been absolutely right of course. Matter-of-fact was the only thing to be under those circumstances. It was he, who had played the mountebank. . . . What comical little insects human beings were! . . . Well, it had been a richly humorous experience, and it had taught him a lot. He was glad it had happened. . . . But never again! Might as well make up his mind to it, that he was different in that respect from other men.
Inside the door of his own room, another mood was lying in wait for him. He loved that room; everything in it had been chosen by himself. It was on the ground floor at the back of what had been a fine dwelling in its day. There was a noble fireplace with a mantel of black marble. The fire, burning low, filled the room with comfortable warm shadows. Desire struck into Wilfred’s breast like a dagger.
Ah! if there was a dear girl waiting here for me! he thought. One whose heart I knew, and who knew my heart! How sweet before the fire to take her in my arms and kiss her neck; to . . . .