I
one. He received a tremendous heartening lift of his spirits. A little spunk—he could escape.
And he could remember the number on the bottle.
He slept a little toward morning. When he woke he knew this was the day. He would be alone.
Chapter XII
THE MORNING was bustlc. Rosemary, neat and excited, J- in the navy frock with the white, went first away.
Mr. Gibson followed her to the door. He was wearing his robe of small-figured silk, and in it, he felt the same small neat and decent man he had ever been. He did not know how white and ill he looked.
'Goodbye,' she said. 'Oh, please, Kenneth, take care . . . ! You worry me. I almost wish . . .'
'No, no, you must not worry.' His eyes devoured her. 'Goodbye, Rosemary. You must remember . . . this was what I wanted for you.'
'To see me well? she asked, 'and able? Is that what you mean?'
He didn't answer. He was looking at her face very carefully, since it would be the last time he would see it. He was so very fond of her. She was his, in a way.
'Is that all?' she said suddenly.
Mr. Gibson tried to remember what he had just said. 'By no means,' he answered steadily. 'I want you to be happy, too.' He smiled.
'Yes, well . . . I . . .' Her eyes fled and came back. 'What can I do to make you happier?' she cried. 'I'm so—I love you, Kenneth. You know that, don't you?'
It was odd that in this last moment they seemed closer, as he recognized her old familiar passion of gratitude. 'I know,' he told her gently, 'dear girl. I am as happy as I can be,' he said with reassuring accents.
Rosemary shook herself and jerked away. He watched her, so straight, so lithe, so healthy—so youthful—down the drive.
Paul Townsend was on the porch sniffing the mom-
ing. He waved, but Rosemary didn't see him there. Mr. Gibson was just as glad.
Her loyal nature would doom her to endure.
Ethel went next. 'Ken, when you walk to market, pick up a head of lettuce, too? There's a good man.'
'I will,' he promised.
'And pay Mrs. Violette off . . .'
''Yes.'
'And I'll be back, four-ish ...'
''Yes, Ethel. Goodbye, dear. Good luck. You have been--perfectly fine.'
'Pish tush,' said Ethel. 'Of course. Well, I'm off.'
Mr. Gibson closed the door.
He went into the living room and sat down. Mrs. Violette was ironing. He would not, of course, kill himself i until she had gone.
He was a fastidious and thoughtful man. (He could not help it.) There would be no mess about this. Nothing distressing for anyone to clean up. Nothing horrible. He . knew where he would go and what he would take. It was quick and surely neat. He would be found lying in full decorum on his bed, in all peace. They would think, for a while, that he slept. The shock would thus be graduated and as gentle as he could make it.
But he must leave a letter. The letter must be just so. It must set everything as free as could be.
His blood felt cold. He must try not to be sentimental. This was a choice he was making, icy and clear. He didn't fear the dying. He tried to look beyond.
He had no insurance to be affected by a suicide. Rosemary would have his few bonds, his bank account. Yes, a letter to that effect, too. She'd be all right. Paul would stand by. (She would be free.) Ethel of course was self- sufficient. Ethel would help Rosemary to understand— what he chose they should understand. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Except the bomb which would blow up their world one day, but this he could not help.
Everyone's doom was his own.
Mr. Gibson sat in a dream.
At twelve o'clock he was dressed and ready to go downtown, and Mrs. Violette was finished. So he paid her. 'Mr. Gibson, could I have this old string?' she asked him, and showed him what she had fished from the kitchen wastebasket.
'Of course,', he said. 'Do you need any more?' 'I got a lot of stuff to tie up,' she admitted. 'We're going to take 'most everything in the back of the truck '
'How about this?' He gave her a ball of mustard-colored twine.
'That's Miss Gibson's.' Mrs. Violette's small but ripe-lipped mouth made a hiss of the appellation.
