We disputed over her; and she walked between us, erect, absent-minded,
steeping herself in her own thoughts, suffering through her own
thoughts. And around the corner from Eleventh Street, and straight
towards us, came Nicholas Van Suydam. The eager look of expectancy on
his face savoured of the earlier days of their marriage. Eva whispered:
“I forgot that I left word for him to join us at his mother’s.”
I found time to be irritated that she had not said, frankly, upon our
starting out for a walk, that she intended going to Mrs. Van Suydam’s.
Why would she try to make me believe it the impulse of the moment?
Nicholas quickened his pace, hurrying to join us. He must have looked
forward to a stroll home with her; he must again have felt the need
of those intimate touches of life with one’s wife when one is friends
with her. And evening was even now dropping over the city, and with
it the quiet. Doubtless he had welcomed the cessation of rivetting,
the noise of which must of late have jabbered at him “All construction
work is about over--your career is over--it may be that everything is
over.” And here we came, with Eva between us; and her face was set in a
tragic look of pain. He stopped short. “What has happened?” he demanded
sharply.
Without hesitation I played the coward. I turned and ran. But first I
laid a firm hand on Spencer Mapes’ arm and held on until we were around
the next corner.
[Illustration]