That night, when Harkless had gone to bed Meredith sat late by his own
window calling himself names. He became aware of a rhomboidal patch of
yellow light on a wall of foliage without, and saw that it came from his
friend's window. After dubious consideration, he knocked softly on the
door.
"Come."
He went in. Harkless was in bed, and laughed faintly as Meredith entered.
"I--I'm fearing you'll have to let me settle your gas bill, Tom. I'm not
like I used to be, quite. I find--since--since that business, I can't
sleep without a light. I rather get the--the horrors in the dark."
Incoherently, Meredith made a compassionate exclamation and turned to go,
and, as he left the room, his eye fell upon the mantel-piece. The position
of the photographs had been altered, and the picture of the girl who
looked straight out at you was gone. The mere rim of it was visible behind
the image of an old gentleman with a sardonic mouth.
An hour later, Tom came back, and spoke through the closed door. "Boy,
don't you think you can get to sleep now?"
"Yes, Tom. It's all right. You get to bed. Nothing troubles me."
Meredith spent the next day in great tribulation and perplexity; he felt
that something had to be done, but what to do he did not know. He still
believed that a "stirring-up" was what Harkless needed--not the species of
"stirring-up" that had taken place last night, but a diversion which would
divert. As they sat at dinner, a suggestion came to him and he determined
to follow it. He was called to the telephone, and a voice strange to his
ear murmured in a tone of polite deference: "A lady wishes to know if Mr.
Meredith and his visitor intend being present at the country-club this
evening."
He had received the same inquiry from Miss Hinsdale on her departure the
previous evening, and had answered vaguely; hence he now rejoined: "You are quite an expert ventriloquist, but you do not deceive me."
"I beg your pardon, sir," creaked the small articulation.
"This is Miss Hinsdale, isn't it?"
"No, sir. The lady wishes to know if you will kindly answer her question."
"Tell her, yes." He hung up the receiver, and returned to the table. "Some
of Clara Hinsdale's play," he explained. "You made a devastating
impression on her, boy; you were wise enough not to talk any, and she
foolishly thought you were as interesting as you looked. We're going out
to a country-club dance. It's given for the devotees who stay here all
summer and swear Rouen is always cool; and nobody dances but me and the
very young ones. It won't be so bad; you can smoke anywhere, and there are
little tables. We'll go."