The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. Master, your humble servant. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. . . But I do not even care if I am absurd. The gallows has groaned for him for years.
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