“Good night!”
And he jammed on his hat and left.
A WEEK passed. And then another. David, uncertain whether he was ashamed he had spied on Sara, did not try again. He called at the house on four occasions. It was with trepidity, arid he was uncomfortable in Sara’s presence. He could see by the calculation of her look that she neither forgave nor forgot their encounter on South Ninth Street.
And that calculating look was something new in Sara. It had a hard quality dissociated from the Sara with whom David had fallen in love. Indeed, every change that manifested itself in this tall slender girl seemed to rob her of something of her feline softness and replace it with a harsh veener. David noticed that even the manner in which she handled her cigarette had changed: from feline daintiness to the jauntiness of a woman of the streets.
Dr. Hardt called three times, each time at dinner. And each time, Pierre thought, the man went away muttering to himself. He had known Sara most of her life; a sketchy enough acquaintanceship, true, but enough to assure him that he was watching the disintegration of a personality. And yet, what troubled him and what his self-assurance would not permit him to confess aloud, was that he was unable to classify the girl's mental make-up.
Meanwhile, Sara, three times in every seven days, appeared at the house on Ninth Street. Finally, there came an afternoon:
She sat, with the absorbing rigidity of a yogi, on a chair in that room where that man sat at his table. She was more aware, as each minute passed, of a serenity that flowed into her being. She was now beyond any resistance. In this state she yielded to the forces that played upon her. The time that previously had been but momentary in its flashes of understanding now lengthened into a vista of dry- point detail. In that vista she saw herself and the things that, more than life, she desired. Obscure longing was at last defined.
When she finally arose to go, the man nodded to her. He said nothing, but the understanding between them was as complete as if he had said:
“The next time is the end.”
She was not impatient during the two days that intervened. Once during that time David called and found her complaisant. Even the scorn in her eyes was veiled. She agreed to ride to a neighboring farm. But on the way over and the way back she seemed absorbed with her own thoughts. And David did not press her to talk.
He, too, sensed the approach of a crest in her life.
The day came. . . .
Had you seen her, walking south on Broad Street, you would have seen only a smart young woman with whom you wouldn’t mind becoming acquainted. She wore her clothes with feminine distinction. You were perfectly aware that she was a woman. But if you had more proximate traffic with her than a passing glance, you might have feared the avidity of her eyes.
She passed South Street and turned east on Fitzwater until she reached a maze of narrow streets and ugly alleys. Blindly, she turned first into one and then another, her eyes searching the scene ahead of her. Here? Not here. She walked on. And then, out of a twisted lane she emerged in a deserted intersection where, bravely snuggling the great wall of an abandoned factory, stood a tiny neighborhood grocery. In front of the grocery stood a rickety coach; in the coach a fat-faced darkeyed baby slept quietly.
Sara braked her pace. Her breath caught. She glanced to the right, to the left. She glanced behind her. Her sharp eyes peered through the dirty glass of the store’s front. Then, with one movement, she swooped like a hawk, gathered the child into her arms, and walked on.
She found her way to Ninth Street. She walked north. The child slept.
It was five hours later. Sara stood, doubtful, as if she had just emerged from a bad dream into the reality of daylight, in front of the house on Ninth Street. Her back was turned to it. She no
And he jammed on his hat and left.
A WEEK passed. And then another. David, uncertain whether he was ashamed he had spied on Sara, did not try again. He called at the house on four occasions. It was with trepidity, arid he was uncomfortable in Sara’s presence. He could see by the calculation of her look that she neither forgave nor forgot their encounter on South Ninth Street.
And that calculating look was something new in Sara. It had a hard quality dissociated from the Sara with whom David had fallen in love. Indeed, every change that manifested itself in this tall slender girl seemed to rob her of something of her feline softness and replace it with a harsh veener. David noticed that even the manner in which she handled her cigarette had changed: from feline daintiness to the jauntiness of a woman of the streets.
Dr. Hardt called three times, each time at dinner. And each time, Pierre thought, the man went away muttering to himself. He had known Sara most of her life; a sketchy enough acquaintanceship, true, but enough to assure him that he was watching the disintegration of a personality. And yet, what troubled him and what his self-assurance would not permit him to confess aloud, was that he was unable to classify the girl's mental make-up.
Meanwhile, Sara, three times in every seven days, appeared at the house on Ninth Street. Finally, there came an afternoon:
She sat, with the absorbing rigidity of a yogi, on a chair in that room where that man sat at his table. She was more aware, as each minute passed, of a serenity that flowed into her being. She was now beyond any resistance. In this state she yielded to the forces that played upon her. The time that previously had been but momentary in its flashes of understanding now lengthened into a vista of dry- point detail. In that vista she saw herself and the things that, more than life, she desired. Obscure longing was at last defined.
When she finally arose to go, the man nodded to her. He said nothing, but the understanding between them was as complete as if he had said:
“The next time is the end.”
She was not impatient during the two days that intervened. Once during that time David called and found her complaisant. Even the scorn in her eyes was veiled. She agreed to ride to a neighboring farm. But on the way over and the way back she seemed absorbed with her own thoughts. And David did not press her to talk.
He, too, sensed the approach of a crest in her life.
The day came. . . .
Had you seen her, walking south on Broad Street, you would have seen only a smart young woman with whom you wouldn’t mind becoming acquainted. She wore her clothes with feminine distinction. You were perfectly aware that she was a woman. But if you had more proximate traffic with her than a passing glance, you might have feared the avidity of her eyes.
She passed South Street and turned east on Fitzwater until she reached a maze of narrow streets and ugly alleys. Blindly, she turned first into one and then another, her eyes searching the scene ahead of her. Here? Not here. She walked on. And then, out of a twisted lane she emerged in a deserted intersection where, bravely snuggling the great wall of an abandoned factory, stood a tiny neighborhood grocery. In front of the grocery stood a rickety coach; in the coach a fat-faced darkeyed baby slept quietly.
Sara braked her pace. Her breath caught. She glanced to the right, to the left. She glanced behind her. Her sharp eyes peered through the dirty glass of the store’s front. Then, with one movement, she swooped like a hawk, gathered the child into her arms, and walked on.
She found her way to Ninth Street. She walked north. The child slept.
It was five hours later. Sara stood, doubtful, as if she had just emerged from a bad dream into the reality of daylight, in front of the house on Ninth Street. Her back was turned to it. She no
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