When she left the hospital at last he continued to see her, always saying to himself that there was no harm in it, concealing from himself the pleasure it gave him to know himself adored.
She would never tell him where she lived, always giving him a rendezvous on a certain corner, from which they would take a walk for an hour or so. Guessing his desires, she began to change her method of dress, leaving aside the artifices, taking to simple and sober dress, which brought a curious, girlish, counterfeit charm.
"I am doing her good," he said to himself. "It means something to her to meet some one who treats her with respect—like a human being—poor little girl."
He did not realize how often he met her, leaving his troubled room-mates with a curt excuse, nor how rapidly he consumed the distance to their meeting place. He had talked to her at first seriously of serious things, then gradually, laughing in a boyish way, half tempted, he began to pay her compliments. At first she laughed with a little pleasure, but, as the new attitude continued, he felt her eyes on his face constantly in anxious, wistful scrutiny.
One night she did not keep her appointment. He waited troubled, then furious. He left after an hour's lingering, irritable and aroused.
The next night as he approached impatiently, half afraid, she was already at the lamp-post.
"I waited an hour," he said directly.
"I'm sorry; I couldn't come," she answered troubled, but without volunteering an explanation.
"Why?" he said with a new irritation.