But I had not talked of love. It had been my conception of artistry to speak no more of love, daring all my hope on the prospect that the fires which I guessed had been rekindled in Jean's heart would in time burst all her womanly restraint. Then she would come to me. Jean was big enough for that.
I had tried to follow her in spirit through the torment of those days after Spoof's revelation. I had guessed how hard it had been for her, and I kept silence. I conceived that that was artistry.
But there must be an end sometime—sometime soon. I was not all artist, like Jean. Artistry was my means to an end. There must be an end. . . . Which would be the beginning. . . .
Came a tapping on my window. I sat up quickly.
"Frank?"
"Yes?"
"Asleep?"
"Not within miles of it. Whew! Ever see a night like this?" I had thrust my head through the open window and could see her form dimly outlined against the night.
"Used to be the usual thing, down East," she answered. "But we get out of the way of them, here. Get up and let's go for a swim."
A flash of lightning revealed her in her bathing suit. I was soon out of bed and into mine.