She released herself from his hands, slipped away, turned at the door with a ripple of laughter, and went into her room.
“Good night, Sir Faithful!”
She spoke those words as she shut the door, and locked it.
Bertram lay down on the sofa, and in a little while slept, and dreamed not of Janet, but of Joyce. He dreamed that he was searching for her in a wood, and could always see her ahead of him in distant glades, but could never get close to her.
XXXVII
A note came from Bernard Hall of The New World, asking Bertram to go and see him at his office. He greeted Bertram with that coldness which was but an outer crust concealing the flame in his heart, flame of passion against the injustice of life, its tyrannies and cruelties, its immense unconquerable stupidities.
“Take a seat, won’t you?”
Bertram took a seat in a room strewn with papers and books in careless disorder. A middle-aged woman with grey hair smoothed back in the Quaker style, came in and out with proofs, typewritten letters, cards from visitors, which the editor of The New World put down in the general litter on his desk.
“I shall be engaged for half an hour, Miss Doe. They can either wait, or call again.”
Bertram wondered if he were to have the privilege of that half hour, and what the reason might be.