Often, after I had delivered an armful of books to the consulate and we had talked of a wide range of things—for, unlike me, he had no self-consciousness about what interested him, whether others might consider it trivial or not—he would walk back to the bookstore with me, leaving a note on his door. The promise that he would be “Back in 10 minutes” was, I’m afraid, seldom fulfilled, for he became so deeply engrossed that he was unaware of time.
The occasion which was to be so important to me sprang from a discussion of non-resistance to evil, a subject on which he had much to say. We were just passing Wanamaker & Stewarts and he had just triumphantly reviewed the amazing decision of the Japanese Shogun to abolish all police forces, when I became conscious that someone was staring fixedly at me.
A minibile, highslung and obviously custom-built, moved slowly down the street. Its brass brightwork, bumpers like two enormous tackheads, hub rims like delicate eyelets in the center of the great spokes, rococo lamps, rain gutters and door handles, was dazzling. In the jump-seat, facing a lady of majestic demeanor, was Tirzah. Her head was turned ostentatiously away from us.
Enfandin halted as I did. “Ah,” he murmured; “you know the ladies?”
“The girl. The lady is her employer.”
“I caught only a glimpse of the face, but it is a pretty one.”
“Yes. Oh yes....” I wanted desperately to say more, to thank him as though Tirzah’s looks were somehow to my credit, to praise her and at the same time call her cruel and hardhearted. “Oh yes....”
“She is perhaps a particular friend?”
I nodded. “Very particular.” We walked on in silence.
“That is nice. But she is perhaps a little unhappy over your prospects?”