It was enough that she saw it was impossible to
build upon or with him, saw the necessity of trying
elsewhere--unless she would risk--no, invite--finding herself
after a few months, or years, back among the drift, back in
the underworld.
He gazed at her as she stood smiling gently at him--smiling to
help her hide the ache at her heart, the terror before the
vision of the old women of the tenement gutters, earning the
wages, not of sin, not of vice, not of stupidity, but of
indecision, of over-hopefulness--of weakness. Here was the
kind of smile that hurts worse than tears, that takes the
place of tears and sobs and moans. But he who had never
understood her did not understand her now. Her smile
infuriated his vanity. "You can _laugh!_" he sneered.
"Well--go to the filth where you belong! You were born for
it." And he flung out of the room, went noisily down the
stairs. She heard the front door's distant slam; it seemed to
drop her into a chair. She sat there all crouched together
until the clock on the mantel struck two. This roused her
hastily to gather into her trunk such of her belongings as she
had not already packed. She sent for a cab. The man of all
work carried down the trunk and put it on the box. Dressed in
a simple blue costume as if for traveling, she entered the cab
and gave the order to drive to the Grand Central Station.
At the corner she changed the order and was presently entering
the Beaux Arts restaurant where she had asked Freddie to meet
her.
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