“I had to.... What a horrible thing to happen!... I am so tired, Jim. Could you get me home?”
He found a taxi nearer Broadway and directed the driver to stop at a drug-store. Here he insisted that the tiny cut on Palla’s temple be properly attended to. But it proved a simple matter; there was no glass in it, and the bleeding ceased before they reached her house.
At the door he took leave of her, deeming it no time to subject her to any further shock that night; but she retained her hold on his arm.
“I want you to come in, Jim.”
“You said you were tired; and you’ve had a terrible shock–––”
“That is why I need you,” she said in a low voice. Then, looking up at him with a pale smile: “I want you––just once more.”
They went in together. Her maid, hearing the opening door, appeared and took her away; and Jim turned into the living-room. A lighted lamp on the piano illuminated his own framed photograph––that was the first thing he noticed––the portrait of himself in uniform, flanked on either side by little vases full of blue forget-me-nots.
He started to lift one to his face, but reaction had set in and his hands were shaking. And he turned away and stood staring into the empty fireplace, passionately possessed once more by the eternal witchery of this 362 young girl, and under the spell again of the enchanted place wherein she dwelt.
The very air breathed her magic; every familiar object seemed to be stealthily conspiring in the subdued light to reaccomplish his subjection.
Her maid appeared to say that Miss Dumont would be ready in a few minutes. She came, presently, in a clinging chamber-gown––a pale golden affair with misty touches of lace.