“What charming metaphors you use,” she exclaimed petulantly; and then, with swift tormenting compassion, “Poor Meester Deek.” But his protestations worked no difference. One night, in crossing Times Square, she said, “You may take my arm if you choose.” When an hour later he tried to do it, she drew away from him, with, “I cross heaps of streets without that.” Sometimes, driving home, she would unglove a temptress hand and let it rest invitingly in her lap. At the first sign that he was going to take it, it would pop like a rabbit into the warren of her muff. At the moment of parting she became most fascinating; then, for an instant, poignancy would touch her, making her humble. The dread foreknowledge would creep into her eyes that even such loyalty as his could be exhausted; the imminent fear would clutch her that one evening there would be a final parting and the hope of a new dawn would bring no hope of his returning. She would coax him to come up to the apartment; if he consented, she would divert him by chattering to the astonished elevator-boy in what she conceived to be French. She would slip her key into the latch, calling softly: “Mother! Mother!” Sometimes Vashti would come out from the front-room where she had been sitting in the half-light with a man--usually a Mr. Kingston Dak. As often as not she would be in bed. Like conspirators they would tiptoe across the passage. By the piano, with her back towards him, she would seat herself and play softly with one hand, “In the Gloaming, oh My Darling,” one of the few tunes which she could strum without error. He would stand with his face hanging over her shoulder, and they would both wonder silently whether he was going to crush her to him. Just as he had made up his mind, she would swing round with eyes mysterious as moonstones: “Meester Deek, let’s take Twinkles out.” So, leaving the apartment with its heavy atmosphere of sleepers, they would seize for themselves this last respite. Loitering along pale streets with the immensity of night brooding over them, the world became wholly theirs and she again the haunting dream of his boyhood. There was only the blind white eye of the moon to watch them. Reluctantly they would come back to the illumined cave which was fated to engulf her. Their hands would come together and linger. Their lips would stumble over words and grow dumb. “And to-morrow?” he would falter. “To-morrow!--Phone me.--It’s one of the nicest days we’ve ever had.” In a flash she would stoop to Twinkles, tuck the bundle of wriggling fur beneath her arm, wave her hand and run lightly up the steps. If he stayed, he would see her turn before entering the elevator, wave her hand again and throw a last smile to him--a smile which seemed to reproach him, to plead with him and to extend a promise. CHAPTER XIII--DRIFTING