to-night—I just gave in. . . . I—I was so frightfully homesick." He reached out, took her hand, and pressed it to his forehead. "Oh, Alayne, you've always been so good to me!"
She bent and kissed him; then she said, assuming a businesslike tone: "Now we must have something to eat. There are cigarettes. You smoke while I forage in the pantry."
In the glittering little pantry, with its air of trig unhomeliness, she discovered some potato salad bought at a delicatessen shop, a tin of vermicelli with tomato sauce, a lettuce, and some dill pickles. She and Rosamond took only their breakfast and lunch in the apartment.
Strange fare, she thought, as she arranged the things on the tea-waggon, for a Whiteoak! She had made coffee, and now she remembered some jars of preserves given to her by the aunts who lived up the Hudson. She chose one of blackcurrants in a rich syrup. Last, she added some slices of rye bread and some little chocolate-covered cakes.
Finch's back was toward her as she entered the living-room. His head was enveloped in tobacco smoke. He was examining her books. She noticed how loosely his coat hung on him. The boy looked half-starved, she thought.
"Great Scott," he exclaimed, turning round, "what a lot of new books, Alayne! How do you ever get the time to read them all?"
"By not getting time for anything else," she returned. "That one you have in your hand is very interesting. Take it along with you, Finch. I believe you might like it."
"Poetry," he commented, turning over the leaves. . . . He looked up from the book. Their eyes met, and he took a quick step toward her. "Alayne—have you ever—seen him—heard of him?" His face grew scarlet.
"Eden?" She said the name with composure. "I've never seen him or heard from him, but Miss Trent, who shares the apartment with me, insists that she saw him one night last fall outside a theatre. Just a glimpse.