And they did so. They marched unswervingly through the lounge—where the parakeets were already chattering and preening and splashing their bright colors about them—and settled grimly in the deserted library. Poor Hamerton had never been I so miserable in his life: he wanted to die. Miss Thingumabob got out her notebook and went over all the details of the work at Assisi, pitilessly. Items were checked off, accounts were balanced, the expense list was verified for the fifth time, with emendations and queries (Miss Thingumabob had a terrific sense of honor with regard to the expense account), and when ten o’clock came Hamerton was in a state of suppressed fury. He yawned frankly and said he was going to bed, if she would forgive him. She forgave him sweetly, and off he went. He sneaked into the lounge, but alas, the birds had flown. The room was empty, barren, dead. The ashtrays were littered with cigarette-ends, the air smelt faintly of Turkish tobacco, but otherwise as if the stale room had never known any such seraphic visitation. Defeated, Hamerton crept off to bed. A last despairing hope that he might at least encounter one or two of the parakeets on his way upstairs, or passing through the winding corridors which led to his room, was frustrated. He didn’t meet a soul, or hear a sound. He paused outside his door, with his hand on the knob, as if waiting for some blinding apocalypse, but no apocalypse was vouchsafed. The Hotel Concordia had resumed its natural deadness.
He undressed slowly, with many excursions to the open window to survey the camellia tree and the Roman cats—looked longingly at the Roman moon, resting his hands on the stone sill—listened resignedly to the fragments of Italian conversation which came to him from the adjacent balconies. But now, the subtle flavor of these things was again lost. The magic had departed. The cats were cats; the courtyard was a smelly dank hole, none too clean; the loud conversations of the Italians were a nuisance. He crawled into bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
Almost at once, it seemed, he was awakened. He was wide awake, but at first could discover no reason for it. Something had happened, he knew, but he was not aware what it was. Was it a knock on his door?… Had someone called his name or spoken to him?… Or was it merely the usual crying of cats?… He lay and listened, with his head raised from the pillow, and then the sound was repeated: it was a distinct knock on the wall beside his bed. It sounded startlingly near; and then he remembered that when he had occupied this room before he had noticed this peculiarity. The wall which partitioned this room from the next was extremely thin, and the bed in the next room rested against the wall at exactly the same point as his own. He had been able to hear the nocturnal twistings and turnings of his fellow-sleeper with extraordinary distinctness, a distinctness which at the time he had thought distressing. But now, a sudden and deliriously exciting idea burst into blossom in his mind with something of the beautiful violence of that mythical aloe which blooms only once in a hundred years, and then with a clap of thunder. Suppose this should be one of the fifteen? Good heavens. He went over in his mind as many of the other guests as he could recall—but there was practically nobody else in the hotel. Nobody. The chances were at least ten to one in his favor. At the mere thought, he broke into a miraculous perspiration and began to tremble. The knock had not sounded like an accident: not in the least. But perhaps it would be as well to make certain. He lay there, propped up on one elbow, scarcely breathing, and waited to see if it would be repeated. And almost at once, it was. There was a tap, and then a pause, and then another tap. And then the midnight silence was resumed, a silence only broken up by the distant wail of a cat.
Immediately, Hamerton became a being transformed. His lethargy was gone, his wits were sharpened to a point almost excruciatingly incandescent, a divine fury of excitement possessed him. His heart began beating so violently that it shook the bed. He nerved himself, listened a moment, as if indeed he expected to hear the breathing of his mysterious tête-à-tête, who lay so near to him and who was nevertheless unknown—and then, lifting his hand, gave an answering knock—just one deliberate knock, neither too soft nor too loud: a knock that might be an accident (in case it should turn out that he had been mistaken in his assumption) but that would, on the other hand, be considered an unmistakable reply, if his assumption should turn out to have been correct.
The assumption was correct. The reply came without hesitation—three knocks this time—and Hamerton, exulting, knocked three times in answer. There could now no longer be the slightest question, on either side, of the fact that a deliberate, and marvelous, and profoundly exciting conversation was in progress. Confessedly, they had become Pyramus and Thisbe. Hamerton moved as close to the wall as he could get: he was determined to miss nothing. He wanted to hear every sound—every rustle, every whisper—even, if possible, the creature’s breathing. If she should murmur something, for instance, or give a little cough—? It would be horrible to ignore an overture of that sort. He pressed himself against the wall, therefore, with a zeal that was almost amorous, as if the wall itself were the body of his beloved, and then lay perfectly still, in an agony of suspense. Would she continue this extraordinary conversation? Or would she drop it at this point, having already sufficiently amused herself with it? Perhaps she was merely teasing him, merely pulling his leg. On the other hand, it was just as possible that she had been overcome by timidity, at this point—on discovering that her vis-à-vis was, if anything, too eagerly responsive. And then again, it was possible that she now felt that the initiative, for a moment, should pass to him. It was perhaps his turn to commit himself.…
He waited another moment, accordingly, during which a church clock struck one, and it seemed as if all the cats in Rome yowled in despondent unison; and then, trembling, he raised his hand, poised it, and gave one loud thump on the wall with his knuckles. There was a perceptible pause and then the answer came: this time the knock was rather a gentle one, rather remote; as if the lady had decided that she might have appeared a little too forward, and had wished to be more modest. As if, indeed, she were saying “Oh, well,—perhaps, after all—” or “This is really rather silly of us, don’t you think?—and we’d far better be going to sleep.” Hamerton was immediately aware of all these implications. He concluded that he must himself, at this point, mitigate his eagerness. He controlled himself, counted fifty, and then gave a tap even more fugitive and half-hearted than hers had been—a tap in which he contrived to say: “I too am a modest violet. Did you think I would wish to be a nuisance to you? Heaven forbid!”