What was there for him to do? He could not now earn his living. He could not go home. He had parted from the woman with whom he had been living because he could no longer contribute to their joint expenses. She would have been glad to have paid all—but, Christ, he had not come to that! How they had quarrelled, and she had rained tears whom he had thought too hard ever to shed one! How he had grown to hate her heavy arms! To be free of them—that was the one bright spot.
The smell of damp earth rose from the roots of the new grass about him. The sound of traffic was lulled to a deep hum. He felt isolated, as though he were on an island in the midst of a lonely sea. He was alone. Utterly alone. A wave of loneliness swept over him, so engulfing that beside it the homesickness of Finch was little more than a ripple. He sank back on the bench, his chin sunk on his chest.
Two people had come and seated themselves beside him. They were talking steadily, but in low tones—a mellow old voice and a boyish one. He scarcely heard them. Another fit of coughing came upon him, and he clung to the back of the bench for support. When it was past he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The elder of the two men leaned forward and looked toward him with compassion. Eden, embarrassed, took out a cigarette, struck a match. His face was illuminated.
"My God!" cried Ernest, springing up. "Eden, is it you?"
Eden looked up at him, too astounded for speech.
"Speak, Eden! Tell me what is the matter."
Eden's mouth quivered. "Everything, I guess."
"But that cough! It's simply terrible. How long have you had it?"
"Several months. Don't bother. It will be all right when the warm weather comes."
"But the weather is hot now!"
"It's unseasonable. Probably be cold again to-morrow. . . . Please don't trouble about me. Tell me why you are here. Is that young Finch?"
