"THIRTY"--AND ANOTHER STORY
But the weeks rolled away, and although the reports from the detective
agency were frequent and voluminous--as were the bills--Good remained as
elusive as ever. Even Roger, with his dogged insistence that "he'd come
back all right," grew perceptibly less and less optimistic. Yet through
it all Judith came and went with her head high, and a smile always
ready. Since that mysterious morning she seemed to have undergone a
subtle change. Certainly there was no further evidence of the sullen
resentment which Roger had thought he had detected at first. But there
remained an abstractedness about her which was hard to fathom. When he
thought her listening, she seemed always to be waiting for something.
Indeed, he grew quite worried about her, and would, in all probability
have aroused her violent wrath by consulting a physician, had not the
fact of his approaching wedding driven all such comparatively
unimportant matters out of his head.
Imrie came increasingly to see her, and although he never said anything
about it, it was perfectly clear that Judith's detachment had not
escaped him. Only once did he go so far as to voice his thoughts.
"What the dickens is Judith waiting for, Roger?" he demanded one
evening, after a particularly unsatisfactory dinner, at which she had
made no effort even to appear attentive. But Roger could only shake his
head and wonder too ... and in two minutes forget everything in the
world save Molly Wolcott.
The end came one morning, when he and Judith were at breakfast. He was
aroused from his newspaper by a whispered "at last" from his sister. Her
colour was strangely high, and her eyes sparkled. She was opening a
letter. He watched her closely, wondering what had happened.
Suddenly her face blanched, and her hand went to her throat in a gesture
which recalled to him the day he had apprised her of Good's resignation.
A faint little cry escaped her lips. For a moment she laid down the
letter and closed her eyes. Then she picked it up again, and read it,
apparently, to the end.
"What's the news?" he asked, willing no longer to let her inexplicable
demeanour go unprobed.
"It's a letter from Good," she said mechanically.
"What's he say?"
"He says he's been ill. That's why he hasn't been to see us. He'll come
as soon as he's about."
"I see." Roger's tone was lofty. His disgust was profound if unspoken.
He was offended by her manifest reluctance to confide in him, and he did
not scruple to show the fact. Although consumed with curiosity to know
what Good actually had written--and, indeed, _why_ he had written at
all--he was too proud to question her. With a muttered grunt, expressive
of anything which one might choose to read into it, he buried himself
anew in his paper, and presently, without again referring to the
subject, left the table. His manner, meant to show a consciousness of
injury, and at the same time, readiness for conciliation, produced no
apparent effect. It is doubtful if Judith was aware of his departure. He
left, therefore, with his chagrin redoubled, full of suspicion, and
utterly bewildered at the tortuous mental processes of all women, and
his sister in particular.
Judith was still immersed in the letter. Its bold, uneven scrawl was
familiar, but with an indefinable touch of weakness, never before
apparent. The paper was of the cheapest, a trifle soiled, and torn in
several places. It had been written with a soft pencil, it began,
characteristically, without salutation.
* * * * *
"Some time in the pleistocene age, journalists formed the habit of
ending their news despatches with the mystic symbol, 30. It
signifies--the end.
"I write to tell you that it looks as if it was time to write 30 to the
tedious narrative of yours truly. In a word--I'm not the man I was.
Which is a cryptic way of saying that I'm more ghost than flesh now, and
shifting rapidly. The medico, who is a poor liar, also has a loud voice
and doesn't know how thin boarding-house walls are. I heard him tell the
landlady that money for medicine was a case of economic folly. I was a
gone goose--or words to that effect.
"It's been a long road and mostly a hard one. I'm not sorry to reach the
end. You see, I never really learned how to walk. Now and then I thought
I had. But the thought was always followed by a tumble. The last was the
hardest. I don't want to try any more. And when a man gets too tired to
_try_--well, there's nothing left but crêpe, is there?
"Really, the doctor's information is quite the cheerfullest thing I
could hear. All I ask is that they ring down the curtain on the
delectable comedy of 'Brent Good, Misfit,' as expeditiously as possible.
From what he said, I judge they will.
"I've tried more things in my allotted span than ten men ordinarily try.
And I've failed, with perfect uniformity, in every one. I counted much
on _The Dispatch_. I stubbed my spiritual toe there, too...."
* * * * *
At that point Judith had to pause, because a mist formed over her eyes
and would not let her see. And the next words brought a lump into her
throat, which choked and hurt.
* * * * *
"... I hoped much--no, _hope_ is hardly the word for what I wanted--from
you. And of course--as I never for an instant doubted I would--I failed
there. Now there's nothing left. I wonder what the next instalment of
the yarn will bring. Do the gods, think you, punish failure as men do?
"But I wander. (My speculations to the landlady regarding reincarnation
have resulted in her frantic appeal to the doctor, with a bottle of
something, in consequence, by my side. That's the scientific way of
solving the problem of immortality.) However, I'm not writing you now to
oblige you to join with me in conjecturing as to what lies in the Other
Room. It's this one, and your place in it that troubles me now.
"I just want to express a sixty-first second sort of a hope that you
won't lose interest in _The Dispatch_. But even as I write, I know that
you, being quite human, in all probability will. Strangely enough I
have a feeling that Roger will be more likely to carry it through than
you will. Men can play baseball all their lives, when six weeks of
crusading is more than plenty. He'll go through with it because it's a
sporting proposition.
"But you--well, I guess one has to starve before he becomes a real
revolutionary. You'll have to pay the price the gods demand for a full
stomach, by being a trimmer all your days. That doesn't mean you won't
do big things. You will, and _The Dispatch_ will be only one of them.
But you won't do them quite as I--being more or less insane--would have
you do them. Still, if you were poor, and therefore understood life as I
understand it, you couldn't do anything at all. So I'm satisfied.
"This is all queer stuff and hard to understand. But remember, to the
natural eccentricities of my nature are added the hallucinations of
approaching dissolution.
"Keep on with the paper as long as you can, and as bravely as you can.
Don't yield to the discouragement which will always be just over your
shoulder, because it accomplishes little. Never forget that you're only
a link in a chain. If you keep your link sound you've done about all you
can do. To you life is long, and the world putty in your hands. But
after all, you're only an atom on the everlasting shore.
"_The Dispatch_ is the paper of Truth. All reformers--most
hypocrites--sing the same song. It seems the easiest thing in the world
to tell the truth. But I know there is nothing harder. And it's not
because truth frequently clashes with the human side of our
lives--though God knows that is hard enough--but because no one knows
what truth is.
"It's a struggle worthy of fine souls to _tell_ the truth. But it's a
far greater struggle to know what the truth is.
"It is that struggle, being the only precious thing I have, that I
bequeath to you.
"There is nothing more to say, I guess, save to wish you well. You will
doubtless marry the dominie. I used to hate him, very largely for that
fact. But now, as I lie here, on a cool, high mountain, far from the
blinding heat of passion (that's a good line, don't you think?) things
look differently. When he stood between you and me, he cast a monstrous
shadow. Now I see him for what he is. He's just a fellow-traveller on
the road I have tried to walk--on your side of it. May God give you both
all that I would have him give me.
"As my final request (this has been full of 'final requests,' hasn't
it!) I ask that you forget me as promptly and as thoroughly as you can.
My rôle in your life has been played. Let me get off the stage now, and
stay off for keeps.
"Forget me--the Fool. Remember, please, only the things I groped
for--the Angel. Good-bye."
* * * * *
For a long time Judith sat staring stonily at the irregular black lines,
wandering stormily, like the life of their author, over the tattered
paper. She fingered the envelope listlessly. It bore no address.
When the maid came to remove the breakfast things, she was dumfounded to
discover her mistress with her head in her hands, but quite silent.
Frightened, she withdrew quickly, to convey the strange intelligence
below stairs.
Upon her return, in obedience to the disgusted promptings of the cook,
who thought she was foolish ever to have left so interesting a scene,
she found Judith just rising from the table, very pale, but otherwise as
calm and self-contained as usual.
"I want the car at once," she said, a little huskily. And when the maid
hesitated stupidly, she added in a tone which was almost fierce, "At
once--do you hear?"
"I've never seen her look like that--never!" declared the maid when she
was safe below stairs again.
"There's things the likes o' you can't understand," said the cook
darkly.
"What d'ye mean?" cried the kitchen in chorus.
"I believe I'm able to keep the secrets as are intrusted to me," said
the cook very haughtily, and with a finality which encouraged no further
interrogation. Safely concealed behind the day-old newspaper--useful
shield in time of distress--she concluded that her prestige had been
rather strengthened than otherwise by the incident. The chauffeur's
eldest boy chuckled furtively, to be sure, but then, he was an
impertinent brat, whose opinion was of no consequence whatever.
While the kitchen buzzed with suppressed speculation, Judith was
closeted with a placid little man whose business was the disclosure of
other peoples' secrets.
"I have a clue, I think," she cried breathlessly.
"Yes?" His tone was quite noncommittal. Years of disillusionment had
robbed him of all enthusiasm.
"I have a letter--this...." She drew Good's tattered scrawl from her
bag. The detective held out his hand--and drew it back empty. It was his
business to see things which were not intended for him to see, and her
sudden flush was not lost upon him. Nor did the involuntary movement of
her hand, with the letter, toward the bag, escape him. But by not so
much as the flutter of an eyelid did his countenance change.
"No address given, I suppose?"
"No."
"May I see ... the envelope?" He noticed that her blush was more
pronounced as she handed it to him. And as he held it up to the light
and seemed to be studying it intently, he was really considering the
different features of what was, even to him, a distinctly unusual case.
Why was this young woman so tremendously desirous of locating an obscure
journalist that she employed detectives for the purpose? And why did she
colour and hold so tenaciously to a note from him? On the face of it it
looked like a typical bit of soiled linen in high place--cases of which
sort he was familiar with to the point of ennui. But his professional
eminence had not been attained merely through industry: he was possessed
of considerably more than a normal share of intuition--and intuition
made the natural hypothesis untenable. He shrugged his shoulders. To
find Good--as he studied the postmark on the envelope, he dismissed that
problem as unworthy of his ability. But to explain why Miss Judith
Wynrod wanted to find him--that, he admitted quite frankly to himself,
was another matter.
Matters which he did not understand were nevertheless an inevitable part
of his daily routine. He had long since ceased to allow any diversion
from the hard business in hand by even the most fascinating of
speculation. And obstacles did not halt him long. Like the ant, he never
stopped to scale them: he went around. It was very much quicker--and
time was of importance.
As if it were of trifling consequence, he handed back the letter from
Good. "I'll phone you when we learn anything," he said indifferently.
"You think--you can find him?"
The detective raised his palms. "That is hard to say."
"But you will do your best?"
"That goes without saying."
He smiled quizzically as he spoke. For the first time he noticed how
attractive his client was. A vague regret flitted across his mind that
if he disappeared there would be no one to seek him with such eagerness.
He dismissed the thought quickly, however. One in his position had no
time for such nonsense. Time was too valuable to be wasted in dreaming.
The Woman faded: only the Case remained. He fell to drumming on the desk
with his pencil, and Judith realised that he asked nothing further of
her. She thanked him and rose. Silently he opened a private door leading
to the hallway, bowed courteously as she passed him, and went back to
his desk as if he had already forgotten her.
Judith went home at once, and all through the morning, she saw to it
that she was not very far from the telephone. Every time it rang her
heart pounded a little harder, and each time that the call was not what
she hoped it would be, disappointment became a little more keen, the
fear of failure a little more pronounced.
The maid who served luncheon reported to the kitchen that her mistress
had tasted nothing.
"What did I tell ye?" said the cook with profound mysteriousness, and
even the chauffeur's boy, who could not recall that she had told
anything, was silenced. "There's things goin' on in this house," she
declared impressively, when she observed that the silence about her was
respectful, "as how none of ye understand." There was no denial.
At about three o'clock, Judith heard the first news.
"The postmark, of course, told us the general locality," said the placid
voice over the telephone, speaking very slowly and distinctly. "I have
just heard from one of my operatives who has been investigating the
drug-stores in the neighbourhood, that he expects to locate a doctor at
any time, who will be able to supply the rest of the information we
seek. It may be an hour--perhaps two--perhaps not to-day. But I think I
can assure you of ultimate success."
Judith thanked him so calmly that the detective wondered. Had he seen
the expression of her face as she hung up the receiver, he would have
wondered still more.
But as three o'clock merged into four, and four rolled away into five,
with no further report, Judith's restlessness gave place to resignation.
And when, just as it was turning dark, the maid announced Imrie, she was
able to welcome him as unaffectedly as if not a care clouded her sky.
It was merely a reaction, of course, quite inevitable after the strain
of anxiety and suspense under which she had laboured for days: but he
was not aware of that. All he knew was that Judith was again the person
he had known and loved so long ago. Back upon him rushed the passion
which had been quiescent before her detached indifference. As she stood
before him, her eyes sparkling, her teeth gleaming, in smiles the like
of which he had not seen, it seemed, since they were children together,
all the hopes and dreams, so long dormant, sprang to his lips.
"Ah, Judith, girl!" he cried, as he jumped to his feet and faced her.
"It's got to come out again. I can't help it--I don't _want_ to help it.
I..."
A look of something akin to terror flashed into Judith's eyes. "Don't,
Arnold--please--you mustn't..." She drew away, almost as if she feared
him. The movement, slight though it was, hurt him infinitely.
"I suppose it's foolish," he said wistfully. "You made that pretty clear
once. But I can't help thinking that things are different now. I'm not
better than I was then--but I know myself better. I was a prig--full of
pride--conceited. At least I'm not that any more. I'm only..." Suddenly
he stopped and eyed her narrowly.
"Tell me, Judith," he demanded, "is it because--there's someone else?"
He was not sure whether she had shaken her head or not. It had become
very dark. He waited a moment, and when she said nothing, he moved a
step nearer again. They were almost touching each other, and the faint
fragrance of her hair in his nostrils, the soft roundness of her
shoulders, overwhelmed him. He trembled violently, and his voice shook.
"Judith..." The words came low but strongly. "I've--I love you. Do you
hear--I love you. I want you--can't you see it? I've loved you ever
since I knew what the word meant. I love you more now than I ever did
before. I've forced myself to wait, to hope, to be patient. I thought
that perhaps ... Judith, my dearest, I can't do that any longer. I can't
trust myself near you any more. The strain of appearing calm and
contented when I'm here leaves me wretched afterward. I've tried hard to
feel it as well as seem it. But it's no use. I can't. Even my work's no
help. You're between me and it all the time. I hoped it would bring me
nearer to you. But something--someone--it simply can't go on. I can't
stand it. Either you marry me--or we've got to separate for good. I..."
"Arnold--what nonsense!" cried Judith. "Why..." As she lifted her eyes
and felt his hot gaze upon her, she caught her breath and was silent.
Neither spoke for what seemed hours, the only sound the ticking of the
great clock in the hall. Then, with a suddenness that stunned, Imrie's
strong arms were around her.
"I guess you need to be taken, my girl!" The words seemed driven through
his teeth. "I've been too ... polite. The last time I kissed you I was
ashamed of myself. I think if I'd kissed you twice I'd have you now. But
it's never too late..."
Imrie had a powerful frame. She was impotent to prevent the eager kisses
he showered upon her.
"Too polite!" he ground from between set jaws, "Not enough--sheer
_man_..."
And then, with the force of a blow, the gust of passion vanished, as he
realised that she was not struggling. She lay in his arms, her eyes
closed, as if she had swooned, but with the faintest of smiles playing
around her lips. He felt suddenly sheepish and awkward. He had seized
her with the force of desperation, bent upon having his will with her,
whether she would or no. He had half expected her to scream or scratch,
to play the primal woman to his primal man. Yet here she was, lying
quiet in his arms, as if--as if ... she liked it! It was incredible. It
was like stooping to pick up a great weight, only to find it tissue
paper. He was thrown back upon himself, all weak and trembling and
amazed and delighted ... a complex of more emotions than he could
possibly enumerate. But as he strove to articulate, to say something,
however banal, he became aware that Judith's eyes had opened.
It was an absurd thought, he told himself, but she seemed to be
listening--and not to him. Then he became conscious of a bell ringing
somewhere in the house, and suddenly Judith sprang from him like an
arrow from a bow.
He sat down helplessly. All his tired brain could formulate was a
question without words. His arms seemed strangely weary ... as if he had
been carrying a dead weight.
In a very few minutes Judith reappeared.
"I've found it," she said, with an air of imparting information for
which he had long been waiting. "I'm going over at once."
"You've found it?" he echoed stupidly. "You're going over? What? Where?
I don't understand."
"Brent Good's," she said quietly, already pulling on her gloves. "He's
ill."
"Oh." The words were enough to galvanise Imrie into action. He jumped to
his feet, his jaw set. "I shall go with you," he said. It was not
uttered as a threat, nor yet as an offer. Judith divined it for what it
was--a statement of fact. But she tried to protest.
"It's not at all necessary."
"I shall go with you," he repeated, with an air of believing that no
human power could possibly prevent it. And Judith, with a recollection
of his recent amazing outburst of masterfulness, said no more.
He seized her hand when they were in the automobile, and she made no
effort to withdraw it. But something told him that she was not even
conscious that he held it. After a little, he released it. She had gone
very far away from him again, he thought sadly, as he watched her
staring wide-eyed out into the darkness. It seemed clear enough now
where she had gone, but there was no less grief at the going, for the
knowledge. The swing of Imrie's hope had reached its amplitude in those
brief moments he had held her unresisting in his arms. It reached its
lowest ebb on that silent ride to the home of his rival.
He noticed, as he turned also to stare out of the window, that
boulevards were giving place to meaner streets. Car-tracks were more in
evidence, and people, particularly children, more numerous. From the
increased jolting, the change in the character of the pavements was
obvious. For a little while they rolled down a very brightly lighted
thoroughfare, lined with shops and moving-picture theatres, and crowded
with vehicles and humanity. Then they turned into a street which was
hardly lighted at all, lined with tall, narrow buildings, entered
through steep, high porches. A few minutes later the car stopped.
Imrie followed Judith up the precipitous ascent to one of the tall,
narrow buildings. Vaguely unpleasant odours assailed him even before the
front door was opened.
"I would like to see Mr. Good," said Judith to the round-shouldered
slattern who answered the bell. The latter nodded dubiously for a
moment, before she disappeared down the dark and narrow hall. Imrie
noticed that she limped as she walked, and that her underskirt showed on
one side. From somewhere below a nauseous odour of stale cooking drifted
up. It was reminiscent to him of schoolday cabbage and boiled things. He
watched Judith in the huge mirror which hung to one side. It was
cracked rather badly, and one of the corners of its finger-marked black
frame had separated.
Presently a stout, red-faced woman with untidy hair, appeared from the
passageway where the young girl had disappeared. She was using her apron
to wipe alternately her hands and the perspiration which exuded
copiously from her forehead. One of her eyes was slightly crossed,
giving her a curious aspect, half comic, half malevolent.
"I would like to see Mr. Good, if I may," repeated Judith pleasantly, as
she approached.
The stout woman raised her hand with a gesture of regret. "Pshaw
now--you're too late."
"Too late?" echoed Judith, her voice trembling.
"Yiss, it's too bad, surely," said the woman calmly. "He died goin' on
two days, it is."
For an instant Imrie thought that Judith was going to faint. All the
colour left her face. As she stood there, trembling and swallowing hard,
her pallor showing green in the dim and flickering gas-light, he thought
he had never seen anything more pitiful.
"Was you a friend of his'n?" asked the stout woman, apparently rather
surprised at the reception of her intelligence.
"Yes," whispered Judith, drawing the words in through compressed lips,
"I was a--friend." Then she removed her hand from the newel post, which
had steadied her, and drew herself erect with what seemed like a
physical effort.
"I wonder if it would be possible to ... has his room--been changed?
Could I ... see it?"
"Bless yer heart, child, that ye may," said the landlady
sympathetically, as if she had solved the problem. Imrie hated her
violently for her solution. "Jist step this way," she added soothingly.
She led the way up interminable flights of stairs, which creaked and
groaned no matter how lightly they tried to walk. Finally they stopped
climbing, and proceeded down a narrow hall, lighted, after a fashion, by
a single gas lamp. Every now and then a draft from somewhere set it
quivering gustily.
Judith was walking as if in a dream. Imrie felt certain that she saw
none of the sights which he saw, nor heard the sounds, nor smelled the
odours. But he was wrong. She felt them all with ten times the keenness
that he did.
At length their guide halted, breathing heavily, and after fumbling with
a bunch of rusty keys, swung open a door which creaked dismally. A
breath of air, faintly pungent with the odour of drugs, came from the
room beyond.
Judith and Imrie stood silently waiting in the hall. The only sound was
a muttered imprecation from the landlady as she stumbled into something
in her search for the light. When she found it, the jet was clogged,
and it whistled and danced as if animate, piping a march to their
entrance.
The room was incredibly small, one wall being reduced to less than the
height of a man by the sharp slope of the roof: and there was only one
window. It was a vivid moment, even to the stout woman, who did not
understand it at all. To Imrie, who thought he understood it, but did
not, the background of the play was burned into his memory never to be
erased.
He was keenly cognisant of the places where the wood floor showed
through the dingy carpet, and the black spots on the iron bedstead from
which the paint had chipped off. He saw, too, the serrated edges of the
water pitcher, and the discoloured marble top of the rickety wash basin.
The poverty of the little room, intensified by its very neatness, struck
him with a clarity which hurt.
But most of all, he noticed the books. They were everywhere, for the
most part ancient in appearance, but with the subtle difference between
the age of use and that merely of years. There was a set of shelves,
with its flimsy boards bending under them. They were piled under the
bed, in corners, on the mantel ... he stopped when he reached the
mantel, partly from Judith's half-uttered cry, partly from what he saw.
It was a photograph, in a cheap gilt frame, of Judith herself,
apparently cut from some newspaper. It was the only picture in the room.
Aside from the books, it was the only thing which did not belong to the
boarding-house. Imrie felt a lump rise in his throat. He heard Judith's
voice faintly.
She was asking matter-of-fact questions quite calmly, but the effort it
was costing her was manifest. The landlady, who was superstitious, was
very glad that the silence had been broken. She talked volubly.
"Yiss, he was buried all right and reg'lar. No, there was no fun'ral. He
said as how 'twas needless expense. No, there was no friends, 'cept, o'
course, a few of us here-abouts. He wouldn't 'ave nobody notified. He
said as how nobody cared. I think m'self 'e wandered a bit. He talked
wild, it seemed to me. No, 'e didn't suffer none--not as I could see.
His books? Oh, 'e sold 'em. They're comin' for 'em to-morrer. He wanted
the money given to a Jew boy that's sick downstairs. He was queer, Mr.
Good was, but 'e was allus free with 'is money, that 'e was."
"What about the picture?" Judith's voice was strained and hoarse.
"Oh, that? He told me to send it to some lady. Funny name, it was. I got
it downstairs. I been too busy to attend to it. What with the dyin' and
the buryin' an' all, not to mention the cookin'--and two parties moved
out to-day, an'...."
"Was it Wynrod--the name?" asked Judith gently.
A light broke over the stout woman's face. "Sure now, that was it. But
how did ye know?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"I am Miss Wynrod."
"Oh, so that's it, is it. Well then, ye can be takin' it an' save me the
trouble. An' by the way--there's a letter, too. I fergot about that. One
moment an' I'll have it fer ye...."
She disappeared noisily. Judith stood staring out of the window. Imrie
tried to fix his attention upon the books, but his eyes kept wandering
miserably to Judith's unresponsive back, drooping like a wilted flower.
Neither spoke. The stout woman returned in a surprisingly short time,
considering her bulk.
"Here 'tis," she cried cheerfully, puffing like some inadequate engine.
"I spilt a little cranberry on it, but that won't hurt the inside." She
handed the envelope to Judith and stood waiting expectantly.
But Judith turned and accepted it without a word, her grey face as
immobile as if made of stone. Quietly she moved nearer the whistling
gas-light, and after a pause, as though she were girding herself for a
struggle, she tore the flap quickly.
It was a short note:
* * * * *
"Dearest of Friends:
"This is my 'thirty.' My story's done--the candle's out.
"But after all, each one of us is only a page--perhaps only a letter--in
the great Book. We're blotted out or torn away, but the Story goes
on--always.
"The forms are closed on my tale. The wires are dead. But there's 'more
to follow' in _your_ story. And the big Yarn isn't finished because my
take's all set. Even when the Foreman puts the blue envelope in _your_
box, even then--there will be 'more to follow.'
"I have loved you well."
* * * * *
Still moving like an automaton, she folded the scrap of paper and placed
it carefully in her bag. Then, as if she could not speak, she bowed to
the landlady, who surveyed her in patent disappointment, and walked
slowly from the room. Imrie followed, understanding something of her
suffering, impotent to help.
But once in the automobile, he could stand it no longer.
"Oh, Judith, Judith," he cried brokenly, "won't you let me...." He put
his arm around her and drew her to him.
She freed herself mechanically.
"No, Arnold," she said very gently. "Not--not now...."
Then the tears came.