“And you?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I say, wouldn’t it be a good thing to lock him in—until later?”
“No, no,” she said with some emphasis; “never that—that sets them crazy. Besides, he’d get out of the window and over the roofs—there’s a way over the tenements. Then there would be trouble.”
He stared at her with a feeling that this was a situation not entirely new to her, wondering many things. She felt the weight of this curiosity, for she turned toward her door, but without embarrassment, saying:
“Good night; thank you.”
“I say, will you tell me one thing?”
“What?”
She turned, her hand to the door, her back against it, drawing her eyebrows together, and, for the first time, he noticed the dark pools of wakefulness under her eyes, shadows that were not unbecoming, but gave an expression of acute sensitiveness to the fragile, dark oval of her face, which ordinarily was a little too placid—like the unmarked stretch of new-fallen snow.
“Did you know him—before?” he said, with a jerk of his head toward the corner studio.