after and caught her in his arms, kissing her forcibly against all her stifled protests. In the end she wrenched herself away, and he saw her face puckered into a pitiful travesty of the girl in the portrait. He had never seen such a strange expression, and didn't know whether it was an indication of mirth or woe, until the tears broke through and she began fumbling for a handkerchief.
"I don't mind being forty," she said with difficulty. "What makes it all so final is that I can't cook beefsteaks."
A laugh broke from him, and turned into a sob. "That," he said, "is the most foolish thing I've ever heard anybody say." The incongruous humor of it made the whole analogy break down, but only he saw that it did. Sophie was walking away, and his protests were dying within him. He followed through the hall, to the foot of the staircase, but at that point he was paralyzed by something relentless in her silhouette as she withdrew further and further.
"Sophie!" he called brokenly, "It's my tragedy too!"
At the top of the stairs, without looking back, she crossed to a bedroom and closed the door behind her. He heard the lock turn.
The big black and white tiles of the floor seemed to undulate. Outside, as if in another world, motor cars went glibly by.
He reached mechanically for his hat and went to the door, leaning against the wall a moment for
