“Well,” she went on, “I feel a little faint myself. I couldn't think
what on earth was the matter until it came over me all at once that I've
eaten nothing to-day but one very small breakfast.”
I let her ring for the waiter and order food. During this space of time
I lay still, trying to think how I should tell her. Every moment it grew
harder. But at last I caught her hand, when she was passing the bed, and
drew her down beside me. She knew well enough what was on my mind, but
she only stroked my forehead with her soft, cool fingers.
In this time, so pregnant for her, and so painful, she was thinking how
she might spare me!
I told her exactly what had taken place; clumsily enough but, at least,
clearly.
She had been there in her room all the time, and had not heard a single
unusual sound.
She did not say much, beyond a thoughtful question or two. The tray
came, and she arranged the little meal as attractively as she could,
there on the edge of the bed. But we both grew more and more sober as
the moments went by. The thought of poor Crocker in acute physical pain,
that once splendid body of his crippled and useless, disturbed us both.
I was glad to see that there were tears in Heloise's eyes.
After the belated luncheon I felt distinctly better. At four o'clock I
got up. Heloise, who was doing her best to keep busy about her own room,
came to the door and suggested a walk.
“It won't hurt either of us,” she added, with a wan smile.
So we went out and strolled over to that great thoroughfare, the Hata
High Street, where the yellow people swarm, and the uniformed police
direct the traffic with an almost Occidental sense of order, and the
long brown camel trains from Mongolia and Kansu pad softly over the very
modern pavement and under the electric street lights.
We stayed out until nearly six. But our spirits did not rise as we had
hoped. For whatever way our thoughts turned, they found no light. We
did not have to talk about this; now and then our eyes met, and that was
enough. Heloise was strangely, almost completely passive. Even in such
trivial matters as picking our way through the traffic--where, I know,
it would be natural for her to look out for herself in that brisk,
self-reliant way that young American women have--she would turn to me
for guidance, and press against my arm. She watched me a good deal, too,
to make sure that I was not becoming tired.
At last we came back to the hotel. As we ascended the stairs I slipped
my arm through hers. She looked up at my touch, and tried to smile; and
her eyes seemed to cling to mine for a moment. In the dim light I could
feel them as well as I could see them.
I opened my door, and stepped aside to let her pass in. Then we both
stopped and looked down at a white envelope that lay on the sill. I
picked it up, then entered and closed the door while she switched on the
light.
I turned the envelope over and over in my hand. She watched me for a
fleeting second, almost timidly, then went into her own room to take off
her hat.
The envelope bore the imprint of the hotel. I opened it, and read the
following:
“It is with regret that the management begs to inform you of a previous
engagement of rooms 16 and 18 for the 15th instant, necessitating that
the rooms be vacated by that date.”
Heloise came to the door, and stood there observing me. She was tucking
back a rebellious strand of hair; and she looked very slim and girlish,
standing that way with both arms raised.
I went over to the casement window, and threw it open. Then I sat down
by it, on one of the chairs of bent iron.
She came toward me, disturbed but hesitant.
I handed her the paper. She read it, standing very st ill. Then she
looked up. Her face twisted a little.
“Why, Anthony,” she said, with a catch in her voice, “we 're put out of
the hotel!”
The sentence ended in an odd, explosive little laugh. Then, abruptly,
she slipped to the floor beside me, threw her arms across my knees, hid
her face on them, and sobbed.
There was nothing I could say, of course. The matter was absurdly
unimportant compared with the grimmer uncertainties before us. Yet it
had hit me with almost the same force.
I laid my hand on her shoulder. I stroked her head. After a little
she groped for my hand with one of hers and, when she found it, clung
tightly to it.
And all the time I was thinking how like a child she seemed. I believe
that is the supreme quality of the artist--childlikeness. It is a
quality that carries the adult worker through hells of suffering and
heavens of unearthly joy; and it is a quality for which small allowance
is made in this particular world.
*****
It will soon be dawn. I have written almost all night. Probably now I
had better try to get some sleep.
She came to the door--hours ago. There was on her face that new passive
quality; I can not define it exactly, even in my own thinking.
“Anthony,” she said, with choirs of suppressed music in her low voice,
“would it be better, tomorrow you know, for us to...” She had to begin
again. “Do you wish me to go away from you? You must tell me--not what
you want, but what you believe is best.”