CHAPTER EIGHT
STORROW, during the preoccupied days that fol- lowed, did his best to argue himself into that con- tentment of mind which is supposed to flower out of evil overcome and temptation defied. But he was con- scious, all the while, of a vague unrest, of a sense of sus- pended action. His ear was repeatedly assailed by the intimate small noises of Torrie Throssel's activities, the snap of a light-switch on their common wall, the tinkling of a telephone call-bell, even the partition-filtered sounds of her splashing body in its bath. He had heard her preoccupied whistling of a current song-hit, in no way disturbed by the flatness of the notes. Later on, he caught the sound of a piano being opened and the keys being tested. Then she had played, badly but noisily, a march- song new to Broadway.
He became aware, the next day, that she had callers. He never failed to hear the thump of the heavy antique knocker affixed to the Vibbard doors, echoing like an an- vil-clang along the dusty hallway. Some of these visits were contentious, and one at least was boisterous, accom- panied by fusillades of rag-time from the piano. Stor- row, when it was over, thought he heard Pannie Atwill's voice amid those of a departing trio. But he could not be sure of this, and he compelled himself nevertheless to go on with his modelling, more intent than ever on his work. Yet his sense of deprivation deepened into one of loneli- ness. Late that night he went to his wide back-window and stared out at the golden mist that hung over the moon- lit city, softening even the barrier of brick and mortar ramparting so crazily across his northern sky-line.
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