“Of course I want the twenty-five, darling, but I hate to rob you. Of course I'll send for you as soon as I can make a nest out there, but how will you get along?” “Oh, I'll get along,” said Kedzie; “there'll be some movie-money coming to me Saturday.” “Well, that's fine,” Gilfoyle said, feeling a weight of horrible guilt mingled with superior wings of relief. He hesitated, hemmed, hawed, perspired, and finally looked to that old source of so many escapes, his watch. “There's a train at eight-two; I could just about make it if I scoot now.” “You'd better scoot,” said Kedzie. And she gave him the money. “I'd like to have dinner with you,” Gilfoyle faltered, “but--” “Yes, I'd like to have you, but--” They looked at each other wretchedly. Their love was so lukewarm already that they bothered each other. There was no impulse to the delicious bitter-sweet of a passionate farewell. She was as eager to have him gone as he to go, and each blamed the other for that. “I'll write you every day,” he said, “and I'll send the fare to you as soon as I can get it.” “Yes, of course,” Kedzie mumbled. “Well, good-by--don't miss your train, darling.” “Good-by, honey.” They had to embrace. Their arms went out about each other and clasped behind each other's backs. Then some impulse moved them to a fierce clench of desperate sorrow. They were embracing their dead loves, the corpses that lay dead in these alienated bodies. It was an embrace across a grave, and they felt the thud of clods upon their love. They gasped with the pity of it, and Kedzie's eyes were reeking with tears and Gilfoyle's lips were shivering when they wrenched out of that lock of torment. He caught her back to him and kissed her salt-sweet mouth. Her kiss was brackish on his lips as life was. She felt a kind of assault in the fervor of his kiss, but she did not resist. He was a stranger who sprang at her from the dark, but he was also very like a poet she had loved poetically long, long ago. Then they wrung hands and called good-bys and he caught up his suit-case and rushed through the door. She hung from the window to wave to him as he ran down the street to the Subway, pausing now and again to wave to her vaguely, then stumbling on his course. At last she could not see him, whether for the tears or for the distance, and she bowed her head on her lonely sill and wept. She had a splendid cry that flushed her heart clean as a new whistle. She washed her eyes with fine cold water and half sobbed, half laughed, “Well, that's over.” CHAPTER XI Charity Coe Cheever was making less progress with her amateur movie-show than Kedzie with her professional cinematic career. Charity telephoned to ask Jim Dyckman to act, but he proved to be camera-shy and intractable. She had difficulties with all her cast. It was impossible to satisfy the people who were willing to act with the roles they were willing to assume.