the position of a chair at dinner, their entrance into the theatre, the taxi door held open after the play, little touching expressions of the male's regard. Of course, Connie was somewhat unconventional. She had talked about him as if he were her oldest friend, even her fiancé. Silently she had probed into his life and had studied him. She avoided the past religiously, spoke of plans, campaigns, decisions, as if she were totally engrossed in the task of recreating him.
He asked himself why she was taking possession of him. Quite calmly he admitted that she was in love with him. He remembered Anita. And Norah. The wise woman had destroyed herself for him. The innocent child had shed a tear and had forgotten. In Connie, he was meeting a new type. The sophisticated woman.
Since Anita and Norah, he had been transformed from a callow child to a man whose inner fire was gone, an ageing man. At twenty-six, he had been already old. At twenty-six, he already stood on the brink of dissolution.
She had rescued him. What would happen? Could he ever become her friend? Could he ever forget the past? Would he ever be able to look at her with loving eyes, to care for her? He was, of course, grateful. Thank God for Connie, thank God. Proof she was that all was not yet lost; proof that he was of finer stuff than most. That a new chapter in his life was beginning.
Why … only a few days ago and he was burning up. Insatiable thirst raged within him; decay and despair.
He entered his room, 703, at the Yorkshire. He switched on the light. The bottle of brandy stood on the dresser. He poured a small quantity into a silver cup and drank.
