Gilfoyle's
reverence for Kedzie demanded at least as much sanctity about his
union with her.
It is curious how habits complicate life. Here were two people whom
it would greatly inconvenience to separate. Yet just because it was
a custom to close the license bureau in the late afternoon they
must wait half a night while the license clerk slept and snored,
or played cards or read detective stories or did whatever license
clerks do between midnight and office hours. And just because people
habitually crawl into bed and sleep between midnight and forenoon,
these two lovers were already finding it hard to keep awake in spite
of all their exaltation. They simply must sleep. Romance could wait.
Gilfoyle knew that there were places enough where Kedzie and he
could go and have no questions asked except, "Have you got baggage,
or will you pay in advance?" But he would not take his Kedzie to
any such place, any more than he would leave a chalice in a saloon
for safe-keeping.
In their drowsy brains projects danced sparklingly, but they could
find nothing to do except to part for the eternity of the remnant
of the night. So Gilfoyle escorted Kedzie to the Hotel Belmont door,
and told her to say she was an actress arrived on a late train. He
stood off at a distance while he saw that she registered and was
respectfully treated and led to the elevator by a page.
Then he moved west to the Hotel Manhattan and found shelter. And
thus they slept with propriety, Forty-second Street lying between
them like a sword.
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