Why had he not forced
his way in? That was what she would have done!
Between them they drafted a letter to the old man, and after
considerable revision sent it off. It was half an apology, half a
manufactured explanation. The letter was not answered.
Came a day in September, a day slashed with alternate sun and rain, sun
without warmth, rain without freshness. On that day they left the gray
house, which had seen the flower of their love. Four trunks and three
monstrous crates were piled in the dismantled room where, two years
before, they had sprawled lazily, thinking in terms of dreams, remote,
languorous, content. The room echoed with emptiness. Gloria, in a new
brown dress edged with fur, sat upon a trunk in silence, and Anthony
walked nervously to and fro smoking, as they waited for the truck that
would take their things to the city.
"What are those?" she demanded, pointing to some books piled upon one of
the crates.
"That's my old stamp collection," he confessed sheepishly. "I forgot to
pack it."
"Anthony, it's so silly to carry it around."
"Well, I was looking through it the day we left the apartment last
spring, and I decided not to store it.
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