“And then?”
“How the devil do I know? It’s up to you, of course, what you do about it.”
He laughed and strode away through the fog.
It had seemed to Jim a long time since he had seen Palla. It wasn’t very long. And in all that interminable time he had not once called her up on the telephone––had not even written her a single line. Nor had she written to him.
He had gone about his social business in his own circle, much to his mother’s content. He had seen quite a good deal of Elorn Sharrow; was comfortably back on the old, agreeable footing; tried desperately to enjoy it; pretended that he did.
But the days were long in the office; the evenings longer, wherever he happened to be; and the nights, alas! were becoming interminable, now, because he slept badly, and the grey winter daylight found him unrefreshed.
Which, recently, had given him a slightly battered appearance, commented on jestingly by young rakes 175 and old sports at the Patroon’s Club, and also observed by his mother with gentle concern.
“Don’t overdo it, Jim,” she cautioned him, meaning dances that ended with breakfasts and that sort of thing. But her real concern was vaguer than that––deeper, perhaps. And sometimes she remembered the girl in black.
Lately, however, that anxiety had been almost entirely allayed. And her comparative peace of mind had come about in an unexpected manner.