He arranged cushions for her: she lighted a cigarette for him; and he sank down beside her in the old place.
Both were still a little shaken. He said that he believed the explosion had come from the outside, and that the principal damage had been done next door, in Mr. Puma’s office.
She nodded assent, listlessly, evidently preoccupied with something else.
After a few moments she looked up at him.
“This is the second day of February,” she said. “Within the last month Jack Estridge died, and Vanya died.... To-day another man died––a man I have known from childhood.... His name was Pawling. And his death has ruined me.”
“When––when did you learn that?” he asked, astounded.
“This morning. My housekeeper in Shadow Hill telephoned me that Mr. Pawling had killed himself, that the bank was closed, and that probably there was nothing left for those who had funds deposited there.”
“You knew that this morning?” he asked, amazed.
“Yes.”
“And you––you still had courage to go to your Red Cross, to your canteen and Hostess House––to that horrible Red Flag Club––and face those beasts and 363 make the––the perfectly magnificent speech you made!–––”