She began to speak, but soon I no longer heard what she was saying.
I heard only her voice, and as I sat there on the table in the dark hall, between the boar's head and the kitchen with the haricot beans, a door seemed to open and a wave of warmth and light came in, soothing and bright, full of dreams and desire and youth.
I propped my feet against the table, I rested my head in my hand, I looked at the boar's head and the repulsive kitchen door, but I could not help myself—summer was all at once there; wind, sunset over the fields of corn, and the green light of the woodland path.
The voice ceased.
I breathed deep.
"It is lovely to talk to you, Pat.
And to-night what are you doing there?"
"To-night there's a little party.
It starts at eight o'clock.
I'm just getting dressed for it."
"What are you going to wear?
The silver dress?"
"Yes, Robby.
The silver dress you carried me along the passage in."
"And whom are you going with?"
"Nobody.
It's here in the sanatorium.
Below in the hall.
We all know each other, you see."
"It must be difficult for you in the silver dress not to be false to me."
She laughed.
"Not in that at all.
I have memories there."
"So have I.
I've seen its effect.
But I'm not asking for details, that's all.
You can be false if you like, I only want not to know it.
Afterwards, when you come back, it will only be like a dream to you and past and forgotten."
"Ach, Robby," said she slowly and her voice sounded deeper than before, "I can't be false to you.
I think too much of you for that.
You don't know what it is like being up here.
A beautiful sunshiny imprisonment.
One amuses oneself as well as one can, that's all.
When I think of your room, sometimes I don't know what to do; then I go to the station and watch the trains come up from below, and think I am nearer to you if I get into a compartment, or pretend I have come to meet someone."
I bit my lip.
I had never heard her talk like that before.
She had always been shy, and couched her liking in a gesture, a glance, rather than in words.
"I'll see to it that I come and visit you sometime, Pat," said I.
"Really, Robby?"
"Yes, at the end of January, perhaps."
I knew it was hardly likely, for from February on we would have to rake up the money for the sanatorium.
But I said it, so that she should have something she could think about.
Then later it wouldn't be so difficult to postpone it until the day came when she would return.
"Good-bye, Pat," said I. "Look after yourself.
Be happy, then I shall be happy too.
Be happy to-night."
"Yes, Robby, I am happy, now."
I collected Georg and went with him to the Cafe" International.
The smoky old shack was hardly recognisable.
The Christmas tree was burning and its warm light reflected in all the bottles and glasses and in the nickel and copper of the bar.