coldly awake, standing in the middle of a crowded, lonely world? But
she stopped on the landing, turned, smiled at him and waved her
hand. He drew in a deep breath, went back into the dining room, put
his lips to the violets that had been touched by her face, and
switched off the lights. The scent of spring was in the air.

"Come in," she said, when presently, after a long pause, he knocked
at her door.

She was sitting at a gleaming dressing table in something white and
clinging, doing her hair that was so soft and brown and electrical.

He dared not trust himself to speak. He sat down on the edge of a
sofa at the foot of the bed and watched her.

She went on brushing but with her unoccupied hand gathered her gown
about her. "What is it, Marty?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing," he said, finding something that sounded curiously unlike
his voice.

She could see his young, eager face and broad shoulders in the
looking-glass. His hands were clasped tightly round one knee.

"I've been listening to the sound of traffic," she said. "That's the
sort of music that appeals to me. It seems a year since I did my
hair in that great, prim room and heard the owls cry and watched
myself grow old. Just think! It's really only a few hours ago that I
dropped my suit-case out of a window and climbed down the creeper.
We said we'd make things move, didn't we?"