"Did you hear me?"
"Yeah. Why didn't you?"
"Because I wanted to see Gwen again. Once more, anyway."
"Suppose she couldn't have come?"
"That's unkind of you!"
"Would a friend have done as well?"
She didn't answer for so long that I leaned out again. She was swinging
the cord of the window blind. The last debilitated glow in the sky made
her look like a flower at twilight--like a single tinted object in a
black-and-white photograph of a room. She caught sight of me.
"Maybe even better," she said falteringly. "What sort of person am I!"
"The sort that a person is, when a person begins finding out what sort."
"But not the final discovery?" The turn and set of her head was eager.
I couldn't see her eyes.
"Who is?"
"You mean--you think everybody--?"
"Yes," I said, swirling the water around. "Everybody. Most--when
they're young. Most grow out of it. Some--hardly notice it. Some have
a minor case of it all their lives. To others--it's an intermittent
hint--a leftover that crops up as a suggestion, not a fact. Lots--are
carried off stage for good by it. The great majority insist they have
no such feelings--never could and never did and never will. The result
of that--"
"Is what?"
"Look out the window and see the crummy mess yourself, honey! If you'll
toss me my dressing gown--from the closet--"
"I'm scared," she said, when I came into the sitting room.