She closed her eyes.

“Poor Gerald!” she whispered. “Isn’t it a shame!”

“I’m afraid,” I said, “there’s nothing to be done....”

“Oh, I know!” Oh, she seemed to know that from her heart. And I wondered why they had not seen each other for ten years. I couldn’t imagine her disliking Gerald—childish, furious Gerald! Probably, I thought, he was to blame, and I wondered if there was anything in Gerald’s life for which he was not to blame. Poor Gerald.

“You see,” the slightly husky voice was saying, “I just came to-night on an Impulse. I am scarcely ever in England....” The voice expired. We waited, and she acknowledged my patience with a jewel of a smile. “And I suddenly{22} thought I would like to see Gerald to-night. Please,” she suddenly begged, so seriously, “won’t you let me? I’d like just to see him ... but if you think ...?”

{22}

“Oh,” I said, “come on.”

She laughed, a little nervously, abruptly. Gerald’s door was at the head of the next flight of stairs, and it was, as usual, wide open. She moved one step forward into the room, she stopped, her eyes on the ceiling, as fixed as lamps. Yes, those were very sensible eyes. She didn’t look at Gerald.

“What is it?” she asked dimly.

“Whisky,” I said. It was so obvious.

“But more than that! There’s certainly whisky, but....”

“Wet shoes....”

“But that’s too literary! Oh, of course! Old women in alms-houses....”

She was talking, it was so easy to see, against her eyes. Now she was here she didn’t want to see Gerald. She was trying to put off the moment when her eyes must rest on Gerald. Still just within the dingy room, she looked everywhere but at Gerald.

“Lot of books,” she said.

I made to go, but the slightest hint of a start detained me. She suggested her gestures. That was a very quiet lady. She didn’t, if you please, intrude her womanhood on the occasion. Women do that 

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