But he flatly couldn't. Why, the tears were coming to his eyes. A little weakness, whenever he was deeply moved, for which he despised himself. There was no telling what he might do—cry like a girl, break out into an impossible torrent of words. A scene. Anywhere; on the street, in the restaurant.
No, however awkward, whatever the cost, he couldn't rejoin them, he couldn't look at Cicely and Elbow and Herb and the others.
He felt in his pocket. Not enough money, of course. He never had enough. He couldn't ever plan intelligently. Yet he was earning twelve dollars a week!... He had a dollar, and a little change. Perhaps it was enough. He could go to a cheap hotel. He had seen them advertised—fifty or seventy-five cents for the night. And then an early morning train for Sunbury.
He would be worse off then than ever, of course. The people who had talked, would have fresh material. Running away from the party! They might say that he had got drunk. Though in a way he would welcome that. It was a sort of way out.
The crowd was nearly gone. They would be closing the doors soon. Then he would have to go—somewhere.
A big woman was making her way inward against the human current. But Henry, though he saw her and knew in a dreamy way that it was Madame Watt, still couldn't, for the moment, find place for her in his madly surging thoughts.
She passed him; looked into the darkened theatre; came back; stood before him.
Then came this brief conversation:—
'You haven't seen him, Henry?'
'No, I haven't.'