She herself admitted him. He laid his hat and coat on a chair in the hall and followed her upstairs to the living-room.
When she had seated herself she looked up at him interrogatively, awaiting his pleasure. He stood a moment with his back to the fire, his hands twisting nervously behind him. Then:
“My trouble,” he explained naïvely, “is that I am restless and unhappy when I remain away from you.”
The girl laughed. “But, Jim, you seemed to be having a perfectly good time at Delmonico’s this noon.”
He reddened and gave her a disconcerted look.
“I don’t see,” she added, “why any man shouldn’t 131 have a good time with such an attractive girl. May I ask who she is?”
“Elorn Sharrow,” he replied bluntly.
Palla’s glance had sometimes wandered over social columns in the papers and periodicals, and she was not ignorant concerning the identity and local importance of Miss Sharrow.
She looked up curiously at Jim. He was so very good to look at! Better, even, to know. And Miss Sharrow was his kind. They had seemed to belong together. And it came to Palla, hazily, and for the first time, that she herself seemed to belong nowhere in particular in the scheme of things.
But that was quite all right. She had now established for herself a habitation. She had some friends––would undoubtedly make others. She had her interests, her peace of mind, and her independence. And behind her she had the dear and tragic past––a passionate memory of a dead girl; a terrible remembrance of a dead God.