BUT if she wished him to know she gave no other sign.
 
She spent the money that he gave her, and when it was gone she asked him for more.
 
Only once she had said as she took it: “You are sure it is right for me to spend this?”
 
And he had replied: “When you ask for anything I cannot give you I will let you know.”
 
She had said nothing. She had not even glanced at him. But somehow he fancied that she understood him.
 
He grew to know, by intuition, the days when she would go to Merwin’s.
 
As he left the house he would say: “She will be there—” And when he dropped in, in the afternoon, he did not even need to glance at the alcove¹ on the right. He would sit down quietly in his place across the aisle², glad to be with her.
 
He never saw her come and go and he did not know whether any one was with her—behind her curtain. He tried not to know.... He was trying to understand Rosalind. What was it drew her? Was it music—or the quiet place? Or was there———?
 
He could easily have known.... Gordon Barstow’s detective would have made sure for him in a day.... But Eldridge did not want to know—anything that a detective could tell him. He did not want to be told by detectives or told things detectives could tell. He was studying Rosalind’s every wish—as if he were a boy.
 
He did not go to Merwin’s till he felt sure that she would be there in the alcove, and he left before she drew the little curtain and came out. He did not want to know.... He only wanted her to be there—and to sit with her a little while, quietly....
 
He would wait and understand.
 
A piano had come into the house and the boys were taking lessons. One day he discovered that Rosalind was learning, too.
 
He had come home early, wondering whether he would ask her to go for a walk with him. He had asked her once or twice and they had gone for a little while before supper, walking aimlessly through the suburban³ streets, saying very little; he had fancied that Rosalind liked it—but he could not be sure.
 
He opened the door with his latchkey and stepped in. Some one was playing softly, stopping to sing a little, and then playing again.... Rosalind was alone.
 
He stood very quiet in the dark hall; only a little light from above the door—shining on the stair rail and on a lamp that hung above it.... She was playing with the lightest touch—a few notes, as if feeling her way, and then the little singing voice answering it.... So she was like this—very still and happy—and he was shut out. His hand groped behind him for the latch⁴ and found it and opened the door, and he stepped outside and closed the door softly.
 
He stood a moment in the wind. Behind his door he heard the music playing to itself....
 
He walked for a long time that afternoon—along the dull streets, staring at brick houses and at children running past him on brick walks.... It was all brick walks and long rows of houses—and dulness; he could not reach Rosalind. He could buy clothes for her—more bricks... and there was the music—his mind halted—and went on.
 
Music made her happy—like that! He bought an evening paper and studied it awhile, standing⁵ by the newsstand, with the cars and taxis shooting past. Presently he folded the paper and took a car that was going toward town. There was something he could do for Rosalind—something that no one had thought of—something that she would like!
 
He was as eager and as ignorant as a boy, standing in front of the barred ticket window and looking in.
 
“Tickets for the Symphony?” The man glanced out at him. “House sold out.”
 
Eldridge stared back. “You mean—I cannot—get them!”
 
“Something may come in. You can leave your name.” The man pushed paper and pencil toward him.
 
Eldridge wrote his name slowly. “I want—good ones.”
 
“Can’t say—” said the man.
 
“There are six ahead of you—” He took up the paper and made a note.
 
Eldridge stepped outside. A man looked at him and moved up, falling into step beside him. “I have a couple of tickets—” he said softly.
 
He did not know that he was speaking to a man on a quest, a man who would have paid whatever he might ask for the slips of paper in his hand—They were not mere⁶ symphony tickets he sold. They were tickets to the fields of the sun. He asked f............