He wanted to say. "It is impossible that you do not love me because you once loved me, because we once lay in each other's arms ... seven years." But there was no Anna to say that to. Instead, a stranger-woman.

An impulse carried him away. He was kneeling beside her, burying his face in her lap. It didn't matter. There was no one to see. Perhaps her hand would move gently over his hair. No, she was sitting straight.

Still alone with something. She was saying:

"I'm sorry. Please, Erik, don't."

"I love you."

"No. No! Please, let's talk...."

He raised his face. It was easier now that he was crying. He wouldn't have to be grammatical ... or finish sentences.

"I understand, Erik. I was afraid of this. For you. But you mustn't.

'Shh! it's all over."

"No, Anna. It can't be. You are still Anna."

"Yes. But different."

He stood up.

"Really, Erik," she was shaking her head and smiling without expression, "everything is over. I would rather have written it to you. I could have made it plain. But I didn't know where to reach you."

He let her talk on and stood staring. Her face was limp. There was nothing there. He was looking at a corpse. Not of her, but somehow of himself. There in her eyes he lay dead--an obliteration. He had come back to a part of him that had died. It was buried where one couldn't see, somewhere behind her eyes.

"I have nothing more to say, Erik. But you must understand what I have said. Because it means everything."

He listened, staring now at the room, remembering. They had lived together once in this room. There was something beautiful about the room. A face that held itself like a lighted lamp to his eyes. "Erik, Erik, I love you. Oh, I love you so. I would die without you. Erik, my own!" The walls and books and chairs murmured with echoes. The familiar slanting books on their shelves. The large leather chairs under the light. He must weep. The little things that were familiar--mirrors in which he saw images and words ... a white body with copper hair fallen across its ivory; white arms clinging pa.s.sionately to him; a voice, rapturous, pleading. He must weep because he had come back to a world that had died, that looked at him whispering with dead lips, "Erik, my beloved. Oh, I'm so happy ... so happy when you kiss me ... my dearest...."

He closed his eyes as tears burned out of them. Anna in a blur. Still talking quietly. Embarra.s.sed by his weeping. He was offering her his silence and his tears. He had never stood like this before a woman. But it was something other than a woman--an ending. As if one came upon a figure dead in a room and looked at it and said without surprise, "It is I."

"So you see, Erik, it's all over. I can't tell you how. It took a long time, but it seemed sudden. I don't know what to say to you, but it will be better to leave nothing unsaid. I'm trying to think of everything.

I'm going to be married next month. Remember, I'm not the Anna you knew.

She isn't getting married again. I'm somebody totally different. I feel different. Even when I walk. You never knew me. I can remember our years together clearly. But it seems like a story that was once told me. Do you understand, Erik? I am not bitter or sad, and I have no blame for you. You are more than forgiven...."

No words occurred to him. Somewhere behind the smooth face of her he fancied lived a woman whose arms were about his neck and whose lips were hungering for him.

"It's all very clear to me, Erik. I've thought of it often. You made me a part of yourself and when you deserted me, you took that with you, and left me as I am; as I was born...."

"Will you play something on the piano for me, Anna?"

"No, Erik."

He seated himself slowly and remained with his head down. There was nothing to think.

"I'll go in a few minutes," he muttered.

Anna, standing straight, watched him as if she were curious. He felt her eyes trying to acquaint themselves with him, and failing. He was growing angry. Better leave before he spoke again. Anger was in him. It was she who had been the unfaithful one. He could smile at that. He stood up then, and smiled. This was a part of life, to be felt and appreciated. A handshake, a smile that von Stinnes would have applauded, and he would have lived another hour.

"On the boat I made love to you," he said softly, "and I am not unhappy.

It is only--my turn to weep a bit."

He regarded her calmly. Yes, if he wanted to ... there was something waiting.... Even though she thought it dead. If he wanted to, there was a grave to open, slowly, with tears and old phrases.

She let him approach her. He felt her body grow rigid as he placed his arms around her. His lips touched her cold cheek.

"It was to make sure that you were dead," he whispered.

She nodded.

... Another hour ended. He had returned. Now he was going away again and the hour was a disc whirling away, already lost among other discs.

The street was chilly. He walked swiftly. His thoughts were a.s.sembling themselves. Words that had lain under the tears in the room thawed out.

"She will marry Meredith and the old man will come to live with me. I should have gone upstairs and said h.e.l.lo. But he was probably asleep.

I'll take my books and furniture. She won't need them with Meredith.

Get an apartment somewhere. How old am I? About forty. Not quite.

Changed completely. Curious, I didn't want her after she'd talked about it. I suppose because I didn't really come for her--for somebody else.

Conrad in quest of his youth. Lost youth. How'd that d.a.m.n book end?

Well, what of it, what of it? Things die without saddening one. Yet one becomes sad. A make-believe. That's right. No matter what happens you keep right on thinking and breathing as if it were all outside. Yes, that's it--outside; a poignant comedy outside that talks to one. Death is the only thing that has reality. We must not take the rest too seriously. If I get too bored I can remember that I killed a man and develop a stricken conscience. Poppyc.o.c.k!... The old man'll be a nuisance. But he's quiet, thank G.o.d! Well, well ... I'm too civilized. I suppose I made an a.s.s of myself. No.... A few tears more or less...."

His thought paused. He walked, looking at things--curbings, houses, street trees, lights in windows. He resumed, after blocks:

"Good G.o.d, what a thing happened to her! To change like that. An awfulness about it. Death in life. Have I changed? No. I'm the same. But that's a lie. I was in love once ... a face like a mirror of stars. The phrase grows humorous with repet.i.tion. It doesn't mean anything. What did it mean? Like trying to remember a toothache ... which tooth ached.

But it only lasted ... let's see. Rachel, Rachel.... Nothing. It was gone a week after I came to her. The rest was--a restlessness ...

wanting something. Not having it. Well, it doesn't matter now."

In his hotel room he undressed without turning on the lights. He felt nervous, vaguely afraid of himself.

"I might commit suicide. Rather stupid, though. I'll die soon enough.

Maybe a few more things left to see and feel and forget. Who knows? I'll have to look up some of the ladies."

He crawled into bed and grew promptly sleepless.

"If I'm honest I'll be able to amuse myself. If not ... oh, Lord, what a mess! No. Why is it? Life runs away like that--hits you in the eye and runs away."

He closed his eyes and sighed. Like himself, the world was full of people who lived on. Things ended for them and n.o.body could tell the difference, not even themselves. Being happy--what the devil was that?

Happiness--unhappiness--you slept as soundly and ate as heartily.

"I'm a little tired to-night." An excuse for something. He was afraid.

He reached over to the small table near the bed and secured a cigarette.

Lighting it, he lay on his back, blowing smoke carefully into the dark and watching the tobacco glow under his nose.

"d.a.m.n good thing I'm not an author. End up as a cross between Maeterlinck and Laura Jean. One could write a volume on a cigarette glowing in the dark."

He puffed until the tobacco was almost ended. He placed the still-kindled stub on the table and sighed:

"Yes, that's me. Life has had its lips to me blowing smoke and fire out of me. And now a table top on which to glow reminiscently for a moment.

And cool into ashes. Apologies to Laura Jean, Marie Corelli--and G.o.d."