“No, no!” She thought a moment, “I’m just here to help—when you need me.”
He was so surprised at this unexpected attitude that he walked up and down, deliberating. Finally, he turned and stared at her.
“I understand you less than ever.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“I’m not so difficult.”
“Well, what do you want me to do now?”
“I want to get you away from here.”
He took up his things and followed her moodily. He was thinking of the head-lines which had startled him, of the mockery of the truth which had been published. Whenever they passed a news-stand, his glance went furtively to the papers displayed, dreading to see his name in the black, leaded spreads. She guessed this shrinking within him, and changed her position to shield him. Curiously enough, his mood led him toward the river-front, over the route past the gas-towers, where they had gone in the silences of the night. If he remembered anything of that fantastic journey, he gave no sign.
They wandered by the docks amid a confusion of trucks, greeted by strong, pungent smells, lingering lazily on a packing-case to watch the cranes, sweeping up their cargoes for foreign ports. Late in the afternoon they stopped in a sanded-floored restaurant for a bite of luncheon. A few loitering groups were at the tables, sailors in jerseys, with down-turned pipes and ruddy faces worked by sea and wind, queer types of briny adventurers.
Inga drew his attention to the men.