“N‑no, I can’t say she did.” She remembered those Saturday excursions and their adventures in “passing,” so harmless, yet so far-reaching. “Oh yes, in one respect she influenced me greatly, changed my whole life.”
He nodded, gazing moodily at the picture. “My mother certainly affected me.”
Angela started to say glibly, “She made you what you are today”; but a glance at his brooding countenance made her think better of it.
“What’s this?” He had turned again to the sketch book and was poring upon a mass of lightly indicated figures passing apparently in review before the tall, cloaked form of a woman, thin to emaciation, her hands on her bony hips, slightly bent forward, laughing uproariously yet with a certain chilling malevolence. “I can’t make it out.”
With something shamefaced in her manner she took it from him. “I’m not sure yet whether I’ll develop it. I—it’s an idea that has slowly taken possession of me since I’ve been in New York. The tall woman is Life and the idea is that she laughs at us; laughs at the poor people who fall into the traps which she sets for us.”
Sorrow set its seal on his face as perceptibly as though it had been stamped there. He came closer. “You’ve found that out too? If I could have managed it you would never have known it. I wanted so to keep it from you.” His manner suddenly changed. “I must go. This afternoon has been perfect; I can’t thank you enough—but I’m not coming again.”
“Not coming again! What nonsense! Why, why ever not? Now, Anthony, don’t begin that vow business. Today has been perfect, marvellous. You don’t suppose I’m going to let my friend go when I’m really just discovering him!”
Weakly he murmured that it was foolish for them to take up each other’s time; he was going away.
“All the more reason, then, why we should be seeing each other.”
His glance fell on the formless sketch. “If I could only get one laugh on life. … When are you going to let me see you again? I’m my own man just now; my time is at your disposal.”
The next afternoon they met outside her office building and dined together. On Friday they sailed to the Atlantic Highlands. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday flashed by, meaning nothing to either except for the few hours which they spent in each other’s company. Thursday was a slack day; she arranged her work so as to be free for the afternoon, and they passed the hurrying, glamorous hours in Van Cortlandt Park, laughing, jesting, relating old dreams, relapsing into silences more intimate than talk, blissfully aware of each other’s presence, still more throbbingly aware of a conversation held in this very Park years ago. Back again in the little hall on Jayne Street he took her in his arms and kissed her slowly, with rapture, with adoration and she returned his kisses. For a long time he held her close against his pounding heart; she opened her languid eyes to meet his burning gaze which she could feel rather than see. Slowly he took her arms from his neck, let them drop.
“Angel, Angel, I shall love you always. Life cannot rob me of that. Goodbye, my sweetest.”
He was lost in the shadowy night.
The next day passed and the next. A week sped. Absolute silence. No sign of him by either word or line.
At the end of ten days, on a never to be forgotten Sunday afternoon, she went to see him. Without conscious volition on her part she was one moment in her apartment on Jayne Street; and at the end of an hour she was pressing a button above the name Cross in a hall on 114th Street, hearing the door click, mounting the black well of a stairway, tapping on a door bearing the legend “Studio.”
A listless voice said “Come in.”
Presently the rather tall, slender young man sitting in his shirt sleeves, his back toward her, staring dejectedly but earnestly at a picture on the table before him asked: “What can I do for you?”
The long and narrow room boasted a rather good parquet floor and a clean plain wall paper covered with unframed pictures and sketches. In one corner stood an easel; the furniture for the most part was plain but serviceable and comfortable, with the exception of an old-fashioned horsehair sofa which Angela thought she had never seen equalled for its black shininess and its promise of stark discomfort.
On entering the apartment she had felt perturbed, but as soon as she saw Anthony and realized that the picture at which he was gazing was an unfinished sketch of herself, her worry fled. He had asked his question without turning, so she addressed his back:
“You can tell me where you found that terrible sofa; I had no idea there were any in existence. Thought they had died out with the Dodo.”
The sound of her voice brought him to her side. “Angèle, tell me what are you doing here?”
She tried to keep the light touch: “Not until you have told me about the sofa.” But his dark, tormented face and the strain under which she had been suffering for the past week broke down her defence. Swaying, she caught at his hand. “Anthony, Anthony, how could you?”
He put his arm about her and led her to the despised sofa; looked at her moodily. “Why did you come to see me, Angèle?”
Ordinarily she would have fenced, indulged in some fancy skirmishing; but this was no ordinary occasion; indeed in ordinary circumstances she would not have been here. She spoke gravely and proudly.
“Because I love you. Because I think you love me.” A sudden terrible fear assailed her. “Oh, Anthony, don’t tell me you were only playing!”
“With you? So little was I playing that the moment I began to suspect you cared—and I
