Part 4 But presently, as she sat on the one antimacassared red silk chair and surveyed her hold-all and bag in that tidy, rather vacant, and dehumanized apartment, with its empty wardrobe and desert toilet-table and pictureless walls and stereotyped furnishings, a sudden blankness came upon her as though she didn’t matter, and had been thrust away into this impersonal corner, she and her gear. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers.
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