Some times he wondered if she were not very lonely, not knowing that
she, too, lived for days on that one hour. She was not going out,
because of Chris's death, and he knew there were long hours when she sat
alone, struggling determinedly with the socks she was knitting.
Only once did they tread on dangerous ground, and that was on her
birthday. He stopped in a jeweler's on his way up-town and brought her a
black pearl on a thin almost invisible chain, only to have her refuse to
take it.
"I can't Clay!"
"Why not?"
"It's too valuable. I can't take valuable presents from men."
"It's value hasn't anything to do with it."
"I'm not wearing jewelry, anyhow."
"Audrey," he said gravely, "it isn't the pearl. It isn't its value.
That's absurd. Don't you understand that I would like to think that you
have something I have given you?"
When she sat still, thinking over what he had said, he slipped the chain
around her neck and clasped it. Then he stooped down, very gravely, and
kissed her.
"For my silent partner!" he said.
In all those weeks, that was the only time he had kissed her. He knew
quite well the edge of the gulf they stood on, and he was determined not
to put the burden of denial on her. He felt a real contempt for men who
left the strength of refusal to a woman, who pleaded, knowing that
the woman's strength would save them from themselves, and that if she
weakened, the responsibility was hers.
So he fed on the husks of love, and was, if not happy, happier.
Graham, too, was getting on better. For one thing, Anna Klein had been
ill. She lay in her boarding-house, frightened at every step on the
stairs, and slowly recovered from a low fever. Graham had not seen her,
but he sent her money for a doctor, for medicines, for her room rent,
enclosed in brief letters, purely friendly and interested. But she kept
them under her pillow and devoured them with feverish eyes.
But something had gone out of life for Graham. Not Anna. Natalie,
watching him closely, wondered what it was. He had been strange and
distant with her ever since that tall boy in kilts had been there. He
was studiously polite and attentive to her, rose when she entered a room
and remained standing until she was seated, brought her the book she
had forgotten, lighted her occasional cigaret, kissed her morning and
evening. But he no longer came into her dressing-room for that hour
before dinner when Natalie, in dressing-gown and slippers, had closed
the door to Clayton's room and had kept him for herself.