“My God!” he moaned softly, “oh, my God!”
There was a faint smell of burning. His pipe lay at his feet, sparks had fallen out and were eating their way into the matting. He stepped on them; then picked up the pipe and resolutely lighted it again. The boots he carried into the living-room; found an old newspaper and wrapped them up; laid the parcel by his hat and coat in the hall.
He found a strap in the kitchen closet and strapped the trunk. There was a suit-case that he had filled; he closed this and laid it on the trunk. Then he turned all the lights off and stood looking out the open window. He had had no dinner—couldn't conceivably eat any. It was evening now; somewhere between eight and nine o'clock, probably. He didn't care. Nothing mattered, beyond getting trunk and suit-case off to Sue before too late—so that she would surely have them in the morning. The sounds of evening in the city floated to his ears; and he realized that he had not before been hearing them. From an apartment across the area came the song of a talking machine. Blowsy women leaned out of rear windows and visited. There was a faint tinkle from a mechanical piano in the corner saloon. He could hear a street-car going by on Tenth Street.
Then another sound—steps in the corridor; the turning of a knob; fumbling at the apartment door.
He started like a guilty man. In the Village, it was nothing for a man to be in a girl's rooms or a girl in a man's. The group was too well emancipated for that—in theory, at least. In fact, of course, difficulties often arose—and gossip. Greathearted phrases were the common tender of Village talk; but not all the talkers were great-hearted. And women suffered while they smiled. He would have preferred not to be found there.
A key grated. The door opened.
With a shrinking at his heart, a sudden great selfconsciousness, he stepped into the hall.
It was Sue—in her old street suit.