“I must, Anthony.”
“It would be trying for you to stay on at the _Wagon-lits_, of course,”
I began.
“It isn't only that,” said she; then stopped.
It was not only that, of course. The poor child was, is, penniless. But
this was something I could not talk about. For the first time in many
days there was an awkwardness between us. Certainly I felt it, and I
think she did. We could n't quite think out what to say. We had been in
the presence of death, and love seemed a petty, selfish thing. And back
of this, something had happened that I don't quite understand now. We
have no longer the poignantly intimate sense of apartness from the
world that we had during those strange, wonderful days at the _Hôtel de
Chine_. The world has thrust itself between us. I can see now that we
were a million miles away from actual life, over there in our two little
rooms with the shrunken door between. We did not know it then; but we
were. We have become self-conscious. Many things flitted into my mind to
say, but I could not say them. They were all unpleasantly flavored
with Consuls-General, and big, noisy hotels, and newspapers, and legal
disputes. It was depressing to think that we could no longer slip
unnoticed about the quaint, barbaric old city. We are known now;
conspicuous, even.
And woven through all these thoughts, deep in our common consciousness,
hovered that brooding mystery of death.
“All right, Heloise,” said I, “we will get your bags back to-night. The
first thing. And we won't hurry about straightening out our plans. Wait
a few days, until you feel more like facing things. What you need now, I
think, is some rest.”
She shook her head. “I don't need rest, Anthony. Goodness knows I have
strength enough for six women. I can face things. No, let's plan now.
What do you want me to do?”
I sat there for several long moments, trying to think how to say it.
I remember that I rubbed my forefinger back and forth along the
windowsill, through the dust, and followed it intently with my eyes.