Someone else said, — She went into a cream dream talking about Ischia last night. . Nearby, someone asked about a slim middle-aged man just out of earshot, who had been appointed instructor in one of the better eastern boys' boarding schools. — Well I don't think he really realizes what he's doing, he just lies beside them and kisses them. .
— It's all right just so long as he doesn't turn them over. .
— And where did you get those eyebrows? someone in that corner asked the Duchess of Ohio, who was waving an old magazine. — If I didn't have these eyebrows I couldn't look so fer-wocious. The magazine was Dog Days, open to the picture of Ch. Dictator von Ehebruch.
— Of course I believe in Art, said a girl with a green tongue, near them. — But not just to look at.
— Chr-ahst, I mean, you know? I mean, Chrahst, don't you wonder what they're trying to do, all of them? I mean, look at this wild-eyed guy that just came in… — God! said Esther, clutched his arm and thrilled him for an instant, left him dumb.
Esther crossed the room, her face flushed, as though this abrupt challenge temporarily suspended the consuming terror which had become the fabric of her own life, just as the flush in her cheeks replaced the transparent whiteness which had come over her face only hours before.
— Look, where's your kitten? Only someone who loves kittens could understand…
— Please, let go of me.
— But you've got to hear this. The kitten… I mean Pavlov had an experiment with lights, and when he rang a bell. . whhffft
— Esther. .
— Darling haven't you had enough?. .
— Esther darling, the tall woman stopped her, — that music seems awfully loud, even for Bach. . Darling where are you going? what's the matter?
The music was The Great Elopement: a chill horn raised her, twisted her up and exalted her for a moment; and then she was let go, and lowered evenly on strings. — He's here, Esther said, her flush already failing. — He's come. . here.
— He has?. . But I don't see anyone, said the tall woman looking over the room with her head cocked back, drawing her eyelids to the level of her lashes which did not move and she looked quite disdainful, — anyone who looks like a Kwa-ker, certainly. . certainly no one whose picture I've ever seen on a book jacket. . Then she lowered her face so quickly that the smooth proud hollows where her eyes lay became furrowed, drawn together by the brows, and — Who do you suppose?. . she murmured, watching Esther hurry toward the door and there seize the arm of a figure with neither hat nor coat nor tie, immediately obscured by her back.
— You've come back. . here? Esther said almost in a whisper.
— I didn't know you had a party. I… I won't interrupt.
— But you. . come. . Esther drew the arm she had seized to her in a convulsive gesture, then as though shocked at this she almost let it go, but did not, turning, toward the bedroom hall, trapped for an instant in the brown eyes of the critic upon her, a gaze she broke and went on, restraining the tension of the music in the wrist gone rigid in her hold. — Come in, in… into the bedroom. All these people, it's not. . not. . where have you been? she asked when they gained the cover of the hall.
— In a Turkish bath, he answered promptly.
— Oh no, you… I mean. . close the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding with a hand on either side of her, and looked at him. He started toward the closet. Then she said, — You. . and her voice quavered, so she stopped and made an effort to swallow, trying to draw together the great hollow behind her tongue. — Almost as though I knew you were coming, she said, and then added, — and expected you. At that he turned to her, and Esther shuddered, for his face was drawn in the mild surprise her memory knew so well, for here now, just as there, she had intruded upon him. There he was, in her memory, usually seated but sometimes standing at a window with his back turned, unaware of her approach so that no matter the circumstances or her intentions, she became stealthy, and might even try to retire and leave him there; but he always turned, like this, intruded upon, composing the lines of his surprise into expectation, looking at her, waiting.
But all this happened very fast, and sometimes, before she knew it she'd set fire to his hair, or saw it so, what was the difference? or saw him streaming blood down the side of his face (as he had that morning when they had news that the warehouse, where his early paintings were stored, had burned, and he came in with a razor cut on his cheek), and this same mild expectancy, waiting to be told.
But now he turned away. — I've just come to pick up some things, he said, and he stood there holding one hand in the other before him, looking down. She watched the lines of his face become confused again, and still sitting on the edge of the bed she asked him,
— What things?
— Well, the. . there must be some clothes. Some clothes. Because this. . He stopped again, holding a black wilted lapel, and looked at it.
— It's been so long, she said, starting to get up. But then she only clasped her hands around a knee, and stayed. — Are you going away? she asked him, and sorry she had for he looked bewildered and not at her. — You're not going to stay? she added abruptly.
— To stay? he repeated, and looked at her.
— You haven't come back to… to stay?. . with me? Her knee slipped from her clasped hand.
— Why no I ssstopped in to… pick up some things, I… there's somewhere I have to go tonight, something I have to… do. He spoke each word as though intending another, misshaping them with his lips, and stood there uncertainly. — You see, I… he commenced again, but she interrupted briskly as she stood.
— It's all right, I simply wondered. A woman likes to know these things.
— But you…
— But you do look better than when you were up here a few days ago, don't you, she went on, her voice with an edge to it.
— Yes, I'm tired.
— Where have you been?
— A Turkish bath.
— All this time?
— No, I… yes.
— Why? Why? Why?
— Oh, they… do all sorts of things to you there. Heat and cold, and steam. . and cold water, and they pound you, and you. . and they. . they do all sorts of things to you to make you. . that you feel. .
He turned toward the closet again, took a step and startled at his brief image in the mirror.
— Oh, but that. . I'm sorry, she said, laughing, coming toward him around the foot of the bed.
— Well I didn't. . think it was mine, he said, confused again, taking off the jacket he'd got from a closet hanger. Its bold plaid sleeves came down to his knuckles, the skirt well down over his thighs.
— I am sorry, Esther said and she quit laughing. — It's. . someone left it here.
— But they're all like this, he said from the closet.
— Your things are in here, in these drawers. She stopped her going toward him, and pulled open a bottom drawer. When she straightened up she'd recovered her impatience. — When you're away for as long as you've been, she began. He was putting back on the wrinkled black jacket from the floor where he'd dropped it. — But here, Esther said, pulling folded clothes from the drawer, — surely there's something in here that will do better than. . that.
But he buttoned the jacket in front, taking both hands to each button.
— This, she said.
He took from her the suit she held out, plain gray with a diagonal weave.
— Well, aren't you going to put it on?
He folded it and put it on the bed, at the same time making sure of the buttons on the jacket he wore, as though suddenly afraid to lose it.
— Aren't you going to wear this?
— I'll. . I'll take it with me, and a shirt. Some shirts too. Then with a step he was nearer her, and another; and he stopped, bringing up his head, both hands open before him, open as though to come to grips except that he'd already fallen half a step back, and She, straightening up with some shirts held forth on the flat of her hands raised her face to his, joining forces with the mirror behind her. — What is it?