But my own troubles had formed a nuclear hardness of
thinking in me, which like a lodestar attracted what was for me, and
left quiet and at a distance what was not mine.
I was delighted to be with Dorothy, but I did not stand with her on the
basis of my former emotional interest. In a way she symbolized the false
standards, the languorous aristocracy of the South. She was a presence
of romantic music, a warmth that produces dreams. She was not the
intense light that shone around Abigail. I had a letter from Abigail in
my pocket. Parts of it wedged themselves through Dorothy's words as she
rattled on more and more. I might as well have been thinking of my
troubles; but in point of fact it was of Abigail.
Dorothy was not like Reverdy, nor was she like Sarah. If she had only
been! A pathos was on me in this walk. The wind was blowing. The forest
trees murmured like agitated water. The moon sailed high, and Dorothy
walked by my side and talked. There was an evident struggle in her to
bring me to her, to evoke the old ardor which had reached for her. But
we returned to Reverdy's at last, and there had been no touch of hands,
no tenderness. She stood momentarily at the gate. I gave her my hand,
and with an impassive goodnight, she turned to the door and I went my
way.
Then regret came over me.
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