THE next day he went again to Merwin’s. No use for him to say he would keep away. He knew, all through the drudging accounts in the morning, that he would go; and while he talked with clients and arranged sales and managed a real-estate deal—back in the corner of his mind, behind its green curtains, the little alcove¹ waited.
 
He passed through the swinging doors and glanced quickly, and the hand holding his hat gripped it tight. The curtains of the third alcove to the right were half closed, but along the floor lay a fold of grey dress and over the end of the seat, thrown carelessly back, hung the edge of a fur-lined wrap.
 
Eldridge turned blindly toward his place. Some one was there. He had to take the alcove behind, and he could not see her from the alcove behind—not even if she should push back the curtain that shut her away—But he found himself, strangely, not caring to see her.... She was there, a little way off; it was she—no need to part the curtains and look in on her. He felt her presence through all the place. He was no longer guilty.... He was hardly curious to know her. He took up the card from the table before him and studied it blindly.... His heart seemed to lie out before him—a clear, white place.... Men and women were not so evil as he had dreamed. He was doing something that a week ago he would have condemned² any one for; yet his heart, as he looked into it, was singularly clear and big—and the light shining in it puzzled him—like a charm—It was a place that he had never seen; he had dreamed of it, perhaps, as a child. He ordered something, at random³, from the card and moved nearer the aisle⁴.... No, he could not see her—only the fold of her dress and the bit of grey fur. He was glad she was warmly dressed. The weather was keener to-day. He must get Rosalind a wrap—something warm like that and lined with fur—soft and grey and deep. Everything the woman had he would like Rosalind to have—perhaps it might atone—a little—for the light in his heart. He had not felt like this for Rosalind.... But how should they have known. They were only a boy and girl—and some moonlight.... And all the time this other woman was waiting—somewhere.... No one had told him. If some one had said to him: “Wait, she is coming—you must wait!” But no one knew, no one had told him.... Did she know, across there in her place, did she know—had she waited—for him? He stirred a little. Some one might be with her now; or she might be waiting for some one. But he could not go to her.... And yet—why not—?—He had only to cross the aisle—and put back the curtains—and look at her.... He shook himself and lifted his glass and drank grimly. He was a lawyer; his name was Eldridge Walcott; he lived in a brick house and he had children—three children—That was the real world; this other thing was—madness.... So this was the way men felt! This was it, was it—very clean and whole—as if life were beginning for them—they had made mistakes, but they would try again; they saw something bigger and better than they had ever known—and they reached out to it. Men were not wicked, as he had thought—It was a strange world where you had to be wicked to do things—like this!... And there might be some one with her now! Under the voices and the music he fancied he could hear them talking in low tones; their voices seemed to come and go vaguely⁵; half guessed, not constant, but quiet and happy.... Or was it his own heart that beat to her—the words it could speak?... He would not speak to her—but he would not go away.... He would wait till she moved back the curtain and stepped out.
 
Then he half remembered something—and looked at his watch—he had promised Rosalind to wait for the boys and take them to the dentist’s. She had said she could not go this afternoon and he had promised to wait at the office; he had not meant to come here.... He slipped back the watch and stood up and hesitated—and turned away. He might never see her now. Well, he had promised Rosalind. Somehow, the promise to Rosalind must be kept—now. The letter of the law must be kept!
 
 
 
 
 
They were waiting for him in the hall by his office door, sitting at the top of the flight of stairs and peering down into the elevator-shaft as the elevator shot up and down. He saw them as he stepped out, and smiled at them. They were fresh, wholesome⁶ boys, and he had a sense, as he fitted the key in the lock and they stood waiting behind his bent⁷ back, that they belonged to him. He had always thought of them as Rosalind’s boys!
 
He threw open the door and they went in, looking about them almost shyly; they were not shy boys, but father was a big man—and they looked at the place where he worked.... Some time they would be—men and have an office....
 
Eldridge Walcott turned back from the desk that he had opened. He had taken out a little roll of paper and slipped it into his pocket. Their eyes followed him gravely. He looked at them standing—half in their world, half in his—and smiled to them.
 
“You had to wait a good while, didn’t you?” he said.
 
They nodded together. “Most an hour,” said Tommie.
 
“Well, that’s all right—Something kept me. Come on.”
 
When they reached home that evening he handed the little roll of paper he had taken from the desk to Rosalind. “I have doubled it,” he said.
 
“There will be enough for everything you want.”
 
For a minute she did not speak. Then she took it. “Thank you,” she said slowly.
 
“I want you to get a suit, you know—a good one—” He paused. “—And you need something warm—a fur-lined wrap or something—don’t you?”
 
She wrinkled the little line between her eyes. “It is—so late—the winter is half gone already.” Then her face cleared. “I think I’ll—wait till spring,” she said.
 
He could almost fancy something danced at him, mocked him behind the still face.
 
He turned away, the deep, hurt feeling coming close. “Get what you like,” he said. “I want you to have enough.”
 
The money lay in her hand, and her fingers opened on it and closed on it. Then she breathed softly, like a sigh, and went to her desk and put it away.