“Why—it’s you!” she whispered. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I brought Joyce home … I’m sorry I startled you … I’d rather hoped we might not have to disturb you.”
“But I thought she was going away with Mr. Masterson. Was he hurt? You’ve been, I see! Was there an accident?”
“Something like that … Nothing serious at all … And Joyce isn’t hurt. She’s just—just pretty tired and sleepy.”
“Her face is bloody … You were going to do something about it, I notice.”
He handed her the towel.
“You’ll find she’s not hurt. That blood she rubbed off me when I brought her in. I thought I would wash it off so you wouldn’t be alarmed when you saw her.”
For a long moment they stood gazing, appraisingly, into each other’s eyes—hers wide with curiosity, hurt with disappointment, but half-sympathetic; his, eloquent with appeal for suspended judgment; both of them at a loss for words to meet their predicament; unable to release themselves from this speechless recognition of their brief comradeship’s claims.
“So—you knew you were coming to my house, then … Perhaps you’ll tell me who you are … You didn’t say—that other time.”
Into Helen’s eyes, and, an instant afterwards, upon her lips, there came the suggestion of a smile. Bobby hesitated: then blurted out, “Merrick.”
“So you’re Bobby Merrick!” Her eyes narrowed. She dug her little fists into her ribs with a defiance that would have seemed deliciously absurd had the occasion been less serious; for she had not been naturally cast for tragic roles and her costume was everything but militant. “You hadn’t brought us enough trouble, had you? What we’d been through wasn’t quite sufficient! You must add a little humiliation to it! You’ve brought Joyce home to me drunk! You look as if you had been drinking, too! … Fighting, weren’t you? … If you could only see yourself! … Oh!”
“Yes—I know. I’m not very pretty to look at—and the evidence isn’t good. Joyce will tell you all about in the morning … Meant it all right … Sorry.”
“You’d better go now.”
He caught up his topcoat.
“It’s too bad!” he muttered, half to himself, as he passed her.
As if he were already out of the house, Helen sank down on the davenport at Joyce’s feet, put both her hands over her face and cried like a little child threatened with punishment. It was a devastating scheme. She seemed so pitiably alone, so desperately in need of a friendly word.
With arrested step, Bobby regarded her with a deeper compassion than he had ever experienced, swept again with that strange sense of their belonging. He turned and took a hesitating step toward her. Suddenly aware of him and divining his thought, she slowly shook her head.
“No … There’s nothing you can do for us … but go!”
His voice was torn with pity.
“I can’t leave you this way … Am I to remember you—always—sitting in a crumpled little heap—crying because I had hurt you?” He bent over her with extended hand. “Say good night to me, won’t you?”
Her eyes travelled up to his face.
“You’re still bleeding,” she said dully. “Better do something … Go in there and wash it off.”
Tossing aside his coat, Bobby returned to the little lavatory, disinterestedly mopped at his stains and flung down the towel, bitterly … She was waiting in the open doorway when he turned; leaning limply back against the doorpost, face upturned, eyes closed, with a roll of surgical bandage, adhesive tape, and scissors in her hands.
“You’re mighty thoughtful.” He reached for the dressings.
“Not at all,” she said evenly, ignoring his gesture. “I’d do as much for a hurt dog … I was too upset to notice that you really needed attention … Come over here to the light. I’ll try to fix you.”
He followed her to the table. With deft fingers she shaped a gauze pad, sheared off some strips of tape, and gave her attention to his torn cheek with all the impersonal interest of a veteran nurse in a charity clinic … The sleeves of her jacket slipped back as she reached up … The touch of her hands on his face, the warm nearness of her, the little tremulous catch in her throat when she breathed, set his heart racing furiously.
“There!” she said at length, lifting the longest lashes he had ever seen, and looking inquiringly into his eyes, “Does that feel better?”
Hours afterward, when her tempest of indignation had subsided through sheer fatigue, her self-reproaches began to eclipse the scorn she felt for him.
Exquisitely tortured, she had lived it over and over again, each second of it—for it had all happened swiftly—as one who follows the minutia of motion on a slow film.
Perhaps, had she turned away at once, he might have stammered his appreciation and left … How indiscreet of her to have looked up, at close range, to inquire, with honest solicitude, “Does that feel better?”
It felt so much better, apparently, that he must express his thanks by taking her hand, as it was withdrawn from his face, lifting it quickly to his lips. She jerked it away from him angrily … Later, as she thought it over in her chaos of angry shame, she reflected it would have been better had she submitted dignifiedly to his impulsive gesture of gratitude … and signed him to be off.
He stood humiliated, abased, as if she had struck him a blow. Then, huskily, measuring his words, he said, “I wonder if you would have done that to a hurt dog, grateful for a little unexpected kindness.”
What a slyly mean advantage to have taken of her sympathy—of her instinctive courtesy!
“That was awfully rude of me … I’ve been through a lot, tonight … I’m not quite myself … Please go—now.”
She should have commanded; not entreated.
“I know you have been cruelly troubled … and it nearly breaks my heart!” he had said.
As she milled it over, with her flushed face buried deep in her pillow, she tried to explain how it all happened. For an instant, when he had put his arms gently about her, she forgot that
