Max Wilson Marriage. Sidney Page Love.
[Note: the a, l, s, and n of “Max Wilson” are crossed through, as are the S, d, n, and a of “Sidney Page”]
The childish scrawl stared up at him impudently, a sacred thing profaned by the day. K. stood and looked at it. The barytone was still singing; but now it was “I'm twenty-one, and she's eighteen.” It was a cheerful air, as should be the air that had accompanied Johnny Rosenfeld to his long sleep. The light was gone from K.'s face again. After all, the Street meant for him not so much home as it meant Sidney. And now, before very long, that book of his life, like others, would have to be closed.
He turned and went heavily into the little house.
Christine called to him from her little balcony:—
“I thought I heard your step outside. Have you time to come out?”
K. went through the parlor and stood in the long window. His steady eyes looked down at her.
“I see very little of you now,” she complained. And, when he did not reply immediately: “Have you made any definite plans, K.?”
“I shall do Max's work until he is able to take hold again. After that—”
“You will go away?”