He said: “Two or three minutes.”
I said: “I don’t want to be casual. I want to tell you that I shall love
you for ever and ever, whatever that means . . .”
“Whatever it means, Pat, I shall, too.”
He took off his hat. He was a young man with red hair that was the shade
of bright-burnished bronze, and a nice chin, that almost had a dimple in
it, and a grey tweed overcoat, and a grey muffler I had given him. I
wanted to remember exactly how he looked . . . I wanted to think of some
words that would be significant—that would make him happy to remember.
A silly inappropriate tag from Virgil came into my head: “Forsan et haec
olim meminisse iuvabit.”—“And perhaps some day even this will be
pleasant to remember.” He had taken my hand, and was holding it so
tightly that an old emerald ring—a ring I wore because Noel had admired
it—hurt my finger. I tried to remember where the emerald ring came
from.
Noel said: “I must go, now, Patricia. . . . Could you manage a smile in
the face of a transcontinental express?” I smiled; he smiled at me.
Someone was shouting “all aboard.” Noel’s lips were brushing against my
face, he had let go of my hand, he had gone, I couldn’t see him, inside
the train. I ran along, looking for him. He was there, smiling, with his
face close to the train window, and his hand against the windowpane. I
put my hand, on the outside of the pane against his on the inside.
He was looking unhappy, but he was smiling. He was saying something to
me, but there was a noise—I could not hear. The train made too much
noise starting . . . and the windowpane pulled from under my hand, and
was gone and Noel’s face was gone. There were other faces, all blurred
together, passing, behind train windows. There was the noise of a train
gathering speed. Then there was an empty track where a train had been.
It seemed very quiet.
I walked back along the platform, and upstairs, through the station, and
out onto the street. There were crowds of people hurrying about as if
they had somewhere important to go. I wished that I had somewhere
important to go.
I had the day to myself—I might go call on Helena, and the blue-eyed
child who had just discovered Broadway first nights. The child had told
me, in a pleased way, last time I had seen her that she had to hurry
home to dress for an “important” first night.
I did not want to go see Helena, or her. I wanted to think of somewhere
important to go myself. I began to laugh at all the people running
around.
I passed a newsstand, and remembered that from the day I had first met
Noel, I had read every single one of his stories.
Then I was pleased with myself, because I had thought of somewhere
important, to go. . . . I walked across town, to the “Times,” and bought
a five-year subscription.