Harvey came before she was ready and she shouted through the door that he must come in and wait. When she came out, wrapped in a bathrobe, he was standing at the window with his pipe in his mouth, looking masculine. “I’m sorry I was so cuckoo,” she murmured, sincerely. “That’s all right. I brought something over.” He waved towards the couch, on which there were parcels—sandwiches and candy and a bunch of red roses. “Oh, Harvey: you’re a darling. I’ve been so nasty to you.” She made him eat some chocolate and put a rose in his buttonhole. He was not in costume, except that he had wrapped a red sash around his waist. “Now you make me feel that I’d better not get dressed up,” she said. “We’d look funny all different.” “No, you go ahead. These affairs are given for the girls anyway. Go on: I’ll wait.” She dressed in the kitchen—bouffant black skirt and purple fringed shawl, with a high comb and a mantilla. He was pleased with her when she came out. “You look swell,” he said. “Regular Señorita. Give us a kiss.” She held up her face. “That’s the kid,” he said. “Not sore at me any more?” “No, You’ve been awfully sweet.” They drove over to the theatre and although it was half an hour late, nothing had started. A crowd of costumed people were in the lobby. Gin paused at the door and looked around for Flo. She was over in the corner with Russell and a party of friends. “Wait a minute,” she told Harvey. “I’ve got to talk to Flo.” Holding her roses carefully, she wedged a way through the crowd to Russell and plucked at her roommate’s arm. Russell turned and greeted her. “Golly, who’s your beau?” he asked. “Flo, look at the flowers.” Gin pulled Flo off a little way. “I’ve been dying to find you,” she said. What was it she had to tell? Then she remembered Wally. Even now, soon as it was after the catastrophe, she was shamedly conscious of a sort of pleasant anticipation, the prospect of causing a sensation with her news, the expression that she could foresee on Flo’s brightly interested face. “I heard about something this afternoon,” she went on. Again she was swamped by the calamity and carried out of herself. The truth of it hit her again, as it had on the road home. Dead and buried. She pictured to herself his closed eyes and the clay. She stopped smiling. The corners of her mouth dulled and her eyes grew wide. “You know Wally....” CHAPTER FOURTEEN “Teddy! Teddy!” The call had sounded so often that to Teddy himself his name had undergone that strange transformation where it had become a senseless word, without end or meaning. He was sick of it. If he heard it once more, he told himself, he would smash something—preferably the stage scenery. One prop pulled out and there would be a splendid crash.