“I’m a Jew,” he repeated. Above her and the table the flourishes and bulgings of the chandelier ... brass gas ... were lewd. “I’m a Jew. If there’s any soul in me worth speaking of, it’s in that book.” She leaned forward upon the table with elbows drawn tight back. “Yet I can’t read a word of it, except in English.... I’m ashamed of that.” She laughed embarrassed. He was understanding deeper he could not understand. She was up swiftly. She took the Bible, opened a door in the sideboard. Glint of glasses, plush, odor of liquors. She placed the Bible within them. “I suppose,” a smile to her face, the first: as sudden again her face was grey,” ...you came for Thelma?” “Why ... yes.”--Of course for that I came, for that only I come ever to your dirty flat.... She has delicate fingers.... How else did I come at first? Dirty? There was a silence fringing his questions, veiling them, making them false. In the silence the presence of strangeness. “I am afraid I may not be able to get her ... right away.” Her fingers curled up. He felt how they had drooped from the hard square palms like shoots frozen in a cold Spring. “There’s just a chance. If you’ll ... excuse me I’ll phone.” The door shut him in. He sat quiet because he wanted to get up, hunt for something. Bible? He walked up and down because he wanted to stay, hoped she would find Thelma. He needed Thelma to-night.... He knew this. --I do not feel it now. For only a sharp need brought him to this flat he despised. Where alone Thelma would meet him.--I am here again. I must need Thelma. Mrs. Luve was back. “I’m sorry. Thelma’s gone to a Show, with some friends. There’s just a chance ... later ... she might possibly go after eleven to the Garden Cafe. I could phone there, then.” Mrs. Luve stood in the door, her face was bright, she smiled again it was grey. “You----“ He shook his head, not getting up. She did not stir also. Her face was bright. Her mouth trembled. He said: “Have you any beer, Mrs. Luve? We might have a drink?” He could not help seeing her, seeing her more and more. Frail slain fingers resting upon a table warmer than her hand. She all a sapling broken in frost ... standing seasons dead. --What is there here to see? He pulled a bill from his pocket. As his hand went toward hers, a hot wind stopped it. He felt them both cold. Under her eyes he saw a shadow like a whip’s mark. He put his money away. She left the room. She returned, she carried a silver platter. Upon it a bottle of wine. Two slim glasses. It was long silence now, with them less heavy against it. Silence full with its own mood, its own blood, strong to live. The wine stood erect on the subtle table. Mrs. Luve leaned and poured of it, a drop first in her glass, then his glass full, then her glass full. Her bare arm pouring red wine came from a dim kimona. ... In the face of a worn woman black eyes burning: eyes blazing against the face, leaping from face and woman: eyes touching the red of the wine.