While I stood there Sir Robert came up the stairs. I heard his ponderous step, more hurried than usual, come along the corridor. There was a silence while, I knew, he was fumbling for his key. Then a jingling, and the sound of his door opening.
I think that an old man is the structure his younger self has built. How badly this man has built. Myself, often when tempted to do this or that, I have thought—“Will it make toward a sweet old age?”
He had talked to me cynically of love, had Sir Robert, only a few hours ago. What would he say now if he knew the immensity of the forces he had stirred and brought to the surface of my consciousness. I smiled as I thought that perhaps I owe much to that old man. I almost wanted to thank him.
So I stood there by the window, thinking many things. And the April air was sweet.
After a little time I started for my walk, my second walk this day under stress of great emotion. But in the course of the few hours intervening I had crossed a line. The man who was now about to step lightly down the stairs and stroll out through the shabby office of the hotel was a new man, one who had never before gone down those stairs or out through that office.
I lingered a moment by her door. I could hear her light step. And she was humming—oh, so softly! Humming another song by her favorite, Franz. It was the dainty, exquisite—
“Madchen mit dem roten Mündchen.”
It seemed to me that there was a new brightness in her voice.
I slipped out into the corridor.
Sir Robert's door stood open. I stepped across and looked in. I had pushed my hat to the back of my head, to let the air cool my forehead. And I think I was swinging my stick.