“Are they?” said he vaguely, and lost himself in a sad maze.
I reflected with bitterness that sentiment in the man and sentiment in the woman often assume different manifestations.
“I was in your garret last week,” I continued. “It isn't much changed.”
“What is it being used for?”
“A sort of loft. The wall panel your father sketched in crayon is still there.”
“I'd like to see that,” said Carlo.
“Nothing easier,” I replied with elation. “I know the people. Come along.” Five minutes later we were climbing the stairs to the top floor. Carlo sought out the blurred sketch and stood before it. “Poor old padre,” he mused. “He believed that he was destined to become a great painter. I wonder.”
His glance roamed. “There's where I used to sleep when the nights were hot. And there's my study corner. You were good to me, dominie. What's the matter? Aren't you well?”
“It's close here,” I said with desperate strategy, and pushed open the dormer half-door leading to the roof.
Carlo's face, which had grown dreamy, suddenly became overspread with gloom as he looked out upon the roof. He hesitated. And the precious moments were passing. Paula must be on her former roof at that moment. Any minute she might leave. Would Carlo go out for a look, or—He went out. I followed. A high, inspiring wind was blowing. It hummed and cried through the meshes of the cage on the roof below with the voice of a thousand imperative and untranslatable messages. The girl in the cage held her face toward it, yearning to its dim and pregnant music, and I thought I had never seen a face so lovely, so lonely, so desolate. Then I turned to Carlo and was glad to the root-nerves of my heart that I had brought him.