He came over to me, white-faced and towering, and he had the audacity
to grip my arm and stand me on my feet, like a bad child--which I was, I
dare say.
"Don't!" he said in a husky, very pained voice. "You are only talking;
you don't mean it. It isn't YOU. You know you care, or else why are you
crying up here? And don't do it again, DON'T DO IT AGAIN--or I will--"
"You will--what?"
"Make a fool of myself, as I have now," he finished grimly. And then he
stalked away and left me there alone, completely bewildered, to find my
way down in the dark.
I groped along, holding to the rail, for the staircase to the roof was
very steep, and I went slowly. Half-way down the stairs there was a
tiny landing, and I stopped. I could have sworn I heard Mr. Harbison's
footsteps far below, growing fainter. I even smiled a little, there in
the dark, although I had been rather profoundly shaken. The next instant
I knew I had been wrong; some one was on the landing with me. I could
hear short, sharp breathing, and then-I am not sure that I struggled; in fact, I don't believe I did--I was
too limp with amazement. The creature, to have lain in wait for me like
that! And he was brutally strong; he caught me to him fiercely, and held
me there, close, and he kissed me--not once or twice, but half a dozen
times, long kisses that filled me with hot shame for him, for myself,
that I had--liked him. The roughness of his coat bruised my cheek; I
loathed him. And then someone came whistling along the hall below, and
he pushed me from him and stood listening, breathing in long, gasping
breaths.
I ran; when my shaky knees would hold me, I ran. I wanted to hide my hot
face, my disgust, my disillusion; I wanted to put my head in mother's
lap and cry; I wanted to die, or be ill, so I need never see him again.
Perversely enough, I did none of those things. With my face still
flaming, with burning eyes and hands that shook, I made a belated
evening toilet and went slowly, haughtily, down the stairs. My hands
were like ice, but I was consumed with rage. Oh, I would show him--that
this was New York, not Iquique; that the roof was not his Andean
tableland.
Every one elaborately ignored my absence from dinner. The Dallas Browns,
Max and Lollie were at bridge; Jim was alone in the den, walking the
floor and biting at an unlighted cigar; Betty had returned to Aunt
Selina and was hysterical, they said, and Flannigan was in deep
dejection because I had missed my dinner.