He entered the vestibule. "No. I can't wait. I'm too wet. I'll stay here. Tell her Gregg"
She caught the suppressed excitement of his manner, and hurried away without closing the door, alarmed by the prospect of some bad news for the girl, whom she liked.
He remained staring at a tiny stream of water that had trickled from some wet umbrellas in the rack and shone on the linoleum in a pool as red as blood under the light of the crimson gas-globe overhead.
"Why!—won't you come in?"
He looked up at her slowly and shook his head. "I've been over with Conroy. They had this picture." He held it out shakily, "They were making fun of it"
"I don't . . . understand."
His face was drawn in a white mask that showed like a grotesque in the crimson light. His eyes were glittering. He asked hoarsely: "Did he?"
"Did he what?"
"Did he . . . kiss you?"
She turned over the photograph. Then she looked up with a nervous smile that was a faint attempt to return the whole matter to the frivolous light in which she had seen it. "Well, he—I couldn't help it. He—we were . . . cutting up."
He turned around without a word and started out the open door.
"Wait," she said sharply. "I don't understand Why do you come here with"
