She began to cry audibly, holding a white handkerchief to her face.

 

He got up and stood close behind her. He put his arms around her. He kissed her

neck between ear and coat-collar. He said: “Now, Iva, don’t.” His face was

expressionless. When she had stopped crying he put his mouth to her ear and

murmured: “You shouldn’t have come here today, precious. It wasn’t wise. You

can’t stay. You ought to be home.”

 

She turned around in his arms to face him and asked: “You’ll come tonight?”

 

He shook his head gently. “Not tonight.”

 

“Soon?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How soon?”

 

“As soon as I can.”

 

He kissed her mouth, led her to the door, opened it, said, “Good-bye, Iva,”

bowed her out, shut the door, and returned to his desk.

 

He took tobacco and cigarette-papers from his vest-pockets, but did not roll a

cigarette. He sat holding the papers in one hand, the tobacco in the other, and