The night was quiet, and the air was warm and still.
The man and the woman walked close together, and with slow, unmeasured
steps, as though the great, slumbering city was a garden, and they were
exploring it for the first time.
They did not speak, for their eyes were wide, engrossed simply in
seeing.
A soldier passed them, then a man who might have been a store-clerk, a
student, a salesman, a clergyman, a scientist.
A young couple approached from the opposite direction, saying quiet
things to each other, perhaps deciding intimate, very important plans
for some near future time.
They passed an all-night drug store, its gaudy light washing the
sidewalk to the curb, limning the wide racks of newspapers and
magazines which told their stories in a dozen languages, on a thousand
themes.
The streets were wide and empty, but they were not lonely, for in them
were the silent echoes of the struggles and victories, big and small,
that had been fought, won and lost in them in a day just dying, just to
be born again in a few short hours.
The man and woman walked for a long time.
And Douglas Blair thought of what would not happen tomorrow.
Not tomorrow or, perhaps with great care and the forgiveness of the
Almighty, not even the day after that.