On his way to business that morning, Jim telephoned to Palla, but, learning she was not at home, let the matter rest.
In his sullen and resentful mood he no longer cared––or thought he didn’t, which resulted in the same thing––the accumulation of increasing bitterness during a dull, rainy working day at the office, and a dogged determination to keep clear of this woman until effort to remain away from her was no longer necessary.
For the thing was utterly hopeless; he’d had enough. And in his bruised heart and outraged common sense he was boyishly framing an indictment of modern womanhood––lumping it all and cursing it out––swearing internally at the entire enfranchised pack which the war had set afoot and had licensed to swarm all over everything and raise hell with the ancient and established order of things.
The stormy dark came early; and in this frame of mind when he left the office he sulkily avoided the club.
He very rarely drank anything; but, not knowing what to do, he drifted into the Biltmore bar.
He met a man or two he knew, but declined all suggestions for the evening, turned up his overcoat collar, and started through the hotel toward the northern exit.
And met Marya Lanois face to face.
She was coming from the tea-room with two or three other people, but turned immediately on seeing him and came toward him with hand extended.
“Dear me,” she said, “you look very wet. And you don’t look particularly well. Have you arrived all alone for tea?”