K. had fallen into the habit, after his long walks, of dropping into

Christine's little parlor for a chat before he went upstairs. Those early

spring days found Harriet Kennedy busy late in the evenings, and, save for

Christine and K., the house was practically deserted.

The breach between Palmer and Christine was steadily widening. She was too

proud to ask him to spend more of his evenings with her. On those

occasions when he voluntarily stayed at home with her, he was so

discontented that he drove her almost to distraction. Although she was

convinced that he was seeing nothing of the girl who had been with him the

night of the accident, she did not trust him. Not that girl, perhaps,

but there were others. There would always be others.

Into Christine's little parlor, then, K. turned, the evening after he had

seen Tillie. She was reading by the lamp, and the door into the hall stood

open.

"Come in," she said, as he hesitated in the doorway.

"I am frightfully dusty."

"There's a brush in the drawer of the hat-rack--although I don't really

mind how you look."

The little room always cheered K. Its warmth and light appealed to his

aesthetic sense; after the bareness of his bedroom, it spelled luxury. And

perhaps, to be entirely frank, there was more than physical comfort and

satisfaction in the evenings he spent in Christine's firelit parlor. He

was entirely masculine, and her evident pleasure in his society gratified

him. He had fallen into a way of thinking of himself as a sort of older

brother to all the world because he was a sort of older brother to Sidney.

The evenings with her did something to reinstate him in his own

self-esteem. It was subtle, psychological, but also it was very human.

"Come and sit down," said Christine. "Here's a chair, and here are

cigarettes and there are matches. Now!"

But, for once, K. declined the chair. He stood in front of the fireplace

and looked down at her, his head bent slightly to one side.

"I wonder if you would like to do a very kind thing," he said unexpectedly.

"Make you coffee?"

"Something much more trouble and not so pleasant."

Christine glanced up at him. When she was with him, when his steady eyes

looked down at her, small affectations fell away. She was more genuine with

K. than with anyone else, even herself.

"Tell me what it is, or shall I promise first?"

"I want you to promise just one thing: to keep a secret."




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