He paid the fat cashier, whose eyes drooped sleepily on either side of a spongy, pendulous nose. Wondered how long his money would last; one day, two days, four days? The icy pavement flew under his feet. Beside the Charles he stooped a moment to watch a rift widening, very black in the ice. Behind him was the throb of the power plant and the soaring brick chimneys. It would be fine to build chimneys like that. I mustn't dawdle. I'll go crazy if I don't see Nan. Kiss me Nan. He was flushed and his ears and fingers tingled from the wind and his eyes were jumpy from the dazzle of the snow through the Fenway. The Swansea, the gilt letters, a little worn, slanted ornately down the glass door. His throat felt tight, all the blood seemed to have ebbed out of him. He wondered if he were going to faint. Miss Taylor, said the visiting card above the bell. The little black button bit into his finger he pushed it so hard. Again. Again. At last the thing in the lock clicked. He pushed the door open and ran up the stairs. On every landing papers, milk bottles. Cautiously Nan's door opened under his knock. "Why, Wenny, you startled me half out of my wits," she said in a yawning voice. "I thought you were a telegram." "I am." She opened the door so that he could see half her face between the tumbled pile of her hair and the green dressing gown clutched about her chin. "Wait a sec. Go into the library. I'll get something on. What on earth is the matter?" In the library Wenny fell into the Morris chair and buried his face in his hands. He was trembling like a whipped dog. He was falling through zone after zone of misery like in a nightmare. "Had any breakfast? I'm putting on coffee," came Nan's voice from the kitchenette. "Fine!" Something unbearably false in his tone made him wince like a lash. He stared about the room terribly afraid of the moment when Nan would come. Opposite him was the piano's great white complacent grin. She was in the room, between him and the piano. He was looking up at her, at her oval face that capped the aloof slenderness of her body in green clinging crepe with long sleeves. O God, to put my hands on her breasts, to touch my lips to the richness of her neck. "Well, you are an early bird this morning, Wenny." She stopped beside the window. Behind her head clouds skidded across a green patch of sky. "It's cold this morning," he heard his voice say. "I'm afraid we'll have a thaw before the day is out.... O, Wenny, I hate this wretched climate. Why aren't we all millionaires so that we could escape the Boston climate?" "Why not escape?" The words stuck in his throat. You damn fool, pull yourself together, a little furious voice was saying in his head. "Ah, the coffee's boiling over.... Wenny, run and fetch the milk and the paper, will you, please?"