It was then that a new note separated itself jarringly
from the soft crying of the night. It was a noise
from an areaway within a hundred feet from his rear
window, the noise of a woman’s laughter.
It began low, incessant and whining—some
servant-maid with her fellow, he thought—and
then it grew in volume and became hysterical, until
it reminded him of a girl he had seen overcome with
nervous laughter at a vaudeville performance.
Then it sank, receded, only to rise again and include
words—a coarse joke, some bit of obscure
horseplay he could not distinguish. It would
break off for a moment and he would just catch the
low rumble of a man’s voice, then begin again—interminably;
at first annoying, then strangely terrible. He
shivered, and getting up out of bed went to the window.
It had reached a high point, tensed and stifled, almost
the quality of a scream—then it ceased and
left behind it a silence empty and menacing as the
greater silence overhead. Anthony stood by the
window a moment longer before he returned to his bed.
He found himself upset and shaken. Try as he
might to strangle his reaction, some animal quality
in that unrestrained laughter had grasped at his imagination,
and for the first time in four months aroused his
old aversion and horror toward all the business of
life. The room had grown smothery. He wanted
to be out in some cool and bitter breeze, miles above
the cities, and to live serene and detached back in
the corners of his mind. Life was that sound
out there, that ghastly reiterated female sound.
“Oh, my God!” he cried, drawing
in his breath sharply.
Burying his face in the pillows he tried in vain to
concentrate upon the details of the next day.
MORNING
In the gray light he found that it was only five o’clock.
He regretted nervously that he had awakened so early—he
would appear fagged at the wedding. He envied
Gloria who could hide her fatigue with careful pigmentation.
In his bathroom he contemplated himself in the mirror
and saw that he was unusually white—half
a dozen small imperfections stood out against the
morning pallor of his complexion, and overnight he
had grown the faint stubble of a beard—the
general effect, he fancied, was unprepossessing, haggard,
half unwell.
On his dressing table were spread a number of articles
which he told over carefully with suddenly fumbling
fingers—their tickets to California, the
book of traveller’s checks, his watch, set to
the half minute, the key to his apartment, which he
must not forget to give to Maury, and, most important
of all, the ring. It was of platinum set around
with small emeralds; Gloria had insisted on this; she
had always wanted an emerald wedding ring, she said.
It was the third present he had given her; first had
come the engagement ring, and then a little gold cigarette-case.
He would be giving her many things now—clothes
and jewels and friends and excitement. It seemed
absurd that from now on he would pay for all her meals.
It was going to cost: he wondered if he had not
underestimated for this trip, and if he had not better
cash a larger check. The question worried him.
