No answer came to his letter; in fact, it was never answered and never
mentioned by either of them. The cheque dropped into that bottomless pit
which was their household exchequer.
A week later he decided to stroll down to the Square, and perhaps to
visit Rosaleen.... It was a wonderful Spring evening, filled with that
cruel promise, that hope never defined, never fulfilled, that wayward
melancholy that is the spirit of every such hour. It touched Landry
profoundly; the cries of the children at play sounded plaintive in his
ears; he even saw a futile pathos in the street lights that glowed so
blatantly against a sky not yet entirely darkened. There was a faint
breeze blowing, and in the little park the swelling branches of the bare
young trees swayed mildly.
He went upstairs, to find the studio door open and a party going on, the
room crowded and turbulent. Lawrence recognised him at once, and
welcomed him with delight.
“Just in time!” he cried. “Put your hat and stick in the back room and
come in and get a drink!”
Still aloof and enchanted by the Spring night, Landry somewhat
reluctantly obeyed, and pushing aside the curtain, entered that private
apartment into which he had observed Rosaleen disappearing from time to
time. A horrible little black hole with nothing in it but a wide bed
with sagging springs that nearly touched the floor, and, all round the
walls, hooks upon which hung the motley clothes of the household.
Nothing else; no rug on the floor, nor a chair; evidently all the rest
of their earthly possessions had gone into the big studio.
He laid his hat and stick on the ragged white counterpane, and returned
to the party. The key to the situation was not in his hands; he saw
none of the pathos of it; he saw merely a crowd of noisy and vulgar
people who were drinking too much, making too much of a row, dancing
with abandon to the music of a wretched phonograph. Rosaleen hurried
about, an anxious hostess, changing records, filling glasses, talking to
this one and that; now and then she danced, but perfunctorily. No one
paid much attention to her. She wore the same dark red silk smock and
bronze slippers she had worn on the evening of his first visit, but by
the garish light of four gas jets, he could see now how worn and shabby
this finery was.
But there was a great deal which he could not see. He could not see the
frightful fear of solitude in Lawrence’s heart which made him welcome
this riff-raff, these people who could be raked in at an hour’s notice,
lured by whiskey, by the perfect freedom allowed them. None of his old
friends came any more, or Rosaleen’s. They had lost their footing, and
they knew it well. But Lawrence didn’t care, so long as there was noise
and life about him, so long as he was not alone. And Rosaleen, in her
unbounded pity for him, would have watched devils dancing there with joy
if it had given him comfort.
Landry was completely out of his element. He was really miserable. The
punch was not good, the floor was sticky, the girls were hectic and
peculiar; he was very anxious to get away, but without offending
Rosaleen. He saw her hurry into the back room and, as he was standing
near the curtains, it was easy to slip in after her, unnoticed.
“Rosaleen,” he began, but stopped in surprise. “Why are you putting on
your hat?”
“I’m going out,” she said.
“It’s nearly eleven. Where are you going?”
“Oh!... To the delicatessen!” she cried, with the first trace of
irritability he had yet seen in her.
“_Now?_”
“Yes, now!” she cried, and he was amazed to see tears in her eyes. “Why
do you _bother_ me so? Let me alone!”
“I don’t want to bother you, Rosaleen,” he said. “But--if you’re going
alone, let me come.”
“No,” she said. “You can’t. They’d all notice.”
“Let them! You surely don’t care for the opinion of that crew! And
anyway, they’ll think I’ve gone home.”
She had got her hat on now.
“Come on, then!” she said, and led him through a door hidden by hanging
coats and wraps, into the hall.
She went furiously fast, and they didn’t exchange a word all the way to
Sixth Avenue. She entered a brilliantly lighted shop with a white tiled
floor and advanced to the high glass counter. And began ordering the
most amazing list--soap, bread, pickles, salad, cake, bacon. It made a
huge bundle. Landry tried to take it from her.
“No!” she said. “You said you were going home!”
“I’ll take you to the door first. Rosaleen, give me that package and
don’t be so disagreeable! What’s the trouble?”
“I’m _tired_!” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nasty, Mr.
Landry!”
She let him take the bundle, and they began to retrace their steps.
“You _are_ an extraordinary girl!” he said. “I can’t understand you. Do
you always do your marketing a little before midnight?”
“I do it when I can!” she answered, with a sigh. “When I can get the
money for it.”
“But--” he began, but stopped short. Had she got the money at that
party? And from whom?