At midnight he had not telephoned in reply to the messages she had left requesting him to call her.
Her anxiety had changed to a vague bewilderment. 247 Her dismayed resentment at what he had said to her was giving place to a strange and unaccustomed sense of loneliness.
Suddenly an overwhelming desire to be with Ilse seized her, and she would have called a taxi and started immediately, except for the dread that Jim might telephone in her absence.
Yet, she didn’t know what it was that she wanted of him, except to protest at his attitude toward her. Such a protest was due them both––an appeal in behalf of the friendship which meant so much to her––which, she had abruptly discovered, meant far more to her than she supposed.
At midnight she telephoned to Ilse. A sleepy maid replied that Miss Westgard had not yet returned.
So Palla called a taxi, pinned on her hat and struggled into her fur coat, and, taking her latch-key, started for Ilse’s apartment, feeling need of her in a blind sort of way––desiring to listen to her friendly voice, touch her, hear her clear, sane laughter.
A yawning maid admitted her. Miss Westgard had dined out with Mr. Estridge, but had not yet returned.
So Palla, wondering a little, laid aside her coat and went into the pretty living room.
There were books and magazines enough, but after a while she gave up trying to read and sat staring absently at a photograph of Estridge in uniform, which stood on the table at her elbow.
Across it was an inscription, dated only a few days back: “To Ilse from Jack, on the road to Asgard.”