“I am afraid I may not be able to get her ... right away.”
Her fingers curled up. He felt how they had drooped from the hard square palms like shoots frozen in a cold Spring.
“There’s just a chance. If you’ll ... excuse me I’ll phone.”
The door shut him in.
He sat quiet because he wanted to get up, hunt for something. Bible? He walked up and down because he wanted to stay, hoped she would find Thelma.
He needed Thelma to-night.... He knew this.
—I do not feel it now. For only a sharp need brought him to this flat he despised. Where alone Thelma would meet him.—I am here again. I must need Thelma. Mrs. Luve was back.
“I’m sorry. Thelma’s gone to a Show, with some friends. There’s just a chance ... later ... she might possibly go after eleven to the Garden Cafe. I could phone there, then.” Mrs. Luve stood in the door, her face was bright, she smiled again it was grey. “You——“
He shook his head, not getting up. She did not stir also. Her face was bright. Her mouth trembled. He said: “Have you any beer, Mrs. Luve? We might have a drink?”
He could not help seeing her, seeing her more and more. Frail slain fingers resting upon a table warmer than her hand. She all a sapling broken in frost ... standing seasons dead.