And see!" he added, as the figures drew back, and the lights disappeared; "it's a false alarm. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. She waited expectantly. She stood up before him, smiling faintly. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. It was cheating, pitiful cheating.
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