"I guess that's the rock we split on then," Rhoda said coldly. She couldn't understand herself, even while she knew, deep down, that she wanted more information for him—John Dennis. Any other reason or excuse she used was a sham, a self-delusion.
If she expected a protest, she didn't get it. Rhoda took a long, calm drag on her cigarette. She ground it into the ash tray. She raised her eyes and looked levelly at Frank.
"Very well," he said, finally, "It was nice knowing you."
"Shut the door quietly on the way out," she retorted.
He stared at her, his face revealing nothing. He turned, went to the door, and opened it. He looked back. She had not moved. He left without a word.
Rhoda Kane lit another cigarette. She stared out across the East River at the expensive view that went with her high-rent apartment. She got up and went to the liquor cabinet and made herself a drink.
She was back on the sofa when a key turned in the lock. The door opened. Frank Corson came in, walked to her and stood looking down at her. There was misery in his face, a beaten look in his eyes.
"You knew I couldn't do it."
"Couldn't do what, sweet?"
"Walk out on you. I'm in love with you, goddamn it. If I stayed away tonight, I'd be back tomorrow."