On toward morning, Harriet, who slept but restlessly in her towel, wakened to the glare of his light over the transom.
“K.!” she called pettishly from her door. “I wish you wouldn't go to sleep and let your light burn!”
K., surmising the towel and cold cream, had the tact not to open his door.
“I am not asleep, Harriet, and I am sorry about the light. It's going out now.”
Before he extinguished the light, he walked over to the old dresser and surveyed himself in the glass. Two nights without sleep and much anxiety had told on him. He looked old, haggard; infinitely tired. Mentally he compared himself with Wilson, flushed with success, erect, triumphant, almost insolent. Nothing had more certainly told him the hopelessness of his love for Sidney than her good-night kiss. He was her brother, her friend. He would never be her lover. He drew a long breath and proceeded to undress in the dark.
Joe Drummond came to see Sidney the next day. She would have avoided him if she could, but Mimi had ushered him up to the sewing-room boudoir before she had time to escape. She had not seen the boy for two months, and the change in him startled her. He was thinner, rather hectic, scrupulously well dressed.
“Why, Joe!” she said, and then: “Won't you sit down?”
He was still rather theatrical. He dramatized himself, as he had that night the June before when he had asked Sidney to marry him. He stood just inside the doorway. He offered no conventional greeting whatever; but, after surveying her briefly, her black gown, the lines around her eyes:—
“You're not going back to that place, of course?”
“I—I haven't decided.”