A man began to sing “America.” Outside, an ambulance crashed past. A dull tussle in the street lay below a screen of piercing voices.
A pause.
Quincy was sober.
He watched her with a tender interest that was almost whimsical. She glittered in anger and defiance, now she had given away her secret. With that act of humiliation, her pride had risen. She was sober also.
“Do you think,” she spoke piercingly, leaning back still in her chair, “do you think, if it hadn’t been for somethin’ wrong, I’d ’a’ been out to-night, alone?”
He nodded. Over and over again, he nodded. That was his answer to her. His eyes were watching inward a mute, innumerable procession where little huddled things, grey, warped, stunted, slid away.
She spoke again. “Tell me, boy. You’re alone, too, ain’t you. What’s wrong with you?”
The last grey thing slid out.
Quincy followed it.
In the street was dawn! Dawn with confetti and mud and ice. The street was yellow and hollow and disillusioned. It was a painted harlot after an orgy—a creature of streaked rouge and clotted sweat and bedraggled hair. Quincy left it behind.