"
"From what?"
"Well, do you want the twenty-five, or don't you?"
Gilfoyle pondered. If he questioned the source of the money he
might find it out, and be unable to accept it. He wanted the money
more than the hazardous information; so he said:
"Of course I want the twenty-five, darling, but I hate to rob you.
Of course I'll send for you as soon as I can make a nest out there,
but how will you get along?"
"Oh, I'll get along," said Kedzie; "there'll be some movie-money
coming to me Saturday."
"Well, that's fine," Gilfoyle said, feeling a weight of horrible
guilt mingled with superior wings of relief. He hesitated, hemmed,
hawed, perspired, and finally looked to that old source of so many
escapes, his watch. "There's a train at eight-two; I could just
about make it if I scoot now."
"You'd better scoot," said Kedzie. And she gave him the money.
"I'd like to have dinner with you," Gilfoyle faltered, "but--"
"Yes, I'd like to have you, but--"
They looked at each other wretchedly. Their love was so lukewarm
already that they bothered each other. There was no impulse to
the delicious bitter-sweet of a passionate farewell. She was as
eager to have him gone as he to go, and each blamed the other
for that.
"I'll write you every day," he said, "and I'll send the fare to
you as soon as I can get it."
"Yes, of course," Kedzie mumbled. "Well, good-by--don't miss your
train, darling."
"Good-by, honey."
They had to embrace.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233