“Why did I leave?”
“You ran from a youthful ideal.”
“Men have done more foolish things,” Bobby’s answer comes gravely.
“And wiser.” I hate the mocking laughter that escapes my lips.
“I don’t understand you.” His face has grown whiter; it has changed subtly. “Has Elliott been here? Is it Elliott?”
I sweetly assure him that Mr. Elliott has been here, and I manage to leave the impression that he may be coming again.
This time Bobby’s face goes close to black. With a mocking little bow he bids me good-bye, turns, goes down the road. He marches straight ahead. I have never seen a lion stalk through an African jungle, but I think of one as I look at him. Where is he going? Where is Dicky’s lover going? A dumb sort of fright grips me. I spin down the road to where he marches breast forward with never a backward look—if a woman can spin in these narrow-not-made-to-overtake-anybody’s-lover New York frocks.
“Bobby,” I cry, hard upon him, “stop!”
He turns. Not the Bobby of my letters, not the Bobby of my dreams, not the Bobby of Washington Square, a politely impatient-to-be-gone stranger.
Always, it is the unexpected that overtakes me. To my amazed surprise I wet with salty tears my New York finery.