"I'm not so sure of myself as all that."
Erna gave me a queer look.
Suddenly all the life seemed to go out of her and she appeared old and almost withered.
"I'll tell you something," said she. "I live pretty well and have all kinds of things I don't need.
But believe me—if a man were to come to me and propose that we should live together, properly, decently, I'd leave all this junk and go with him into,an attic if need be." Her face regained its former expression. "But wipe that out—everybody has some sentimental corner." She winked at me through her cigarette smoke. "Even you, apparently?"
"Ach, well—" said I.
"Now, now," warned Erna. "You fall for it easiest when you are least expecting—"
"Not me," I replied.
I stuck in my room until eight o'clock—then I had had enough of sitting around and went to "The Bar" to meet someone to talk to."
Valentin was there.
"Sit down," said he, "what will you drink?"
"Rum," I replied. "I've taken rather a fancy to rum since this afternoon."
"Rum is the soldier's milk," said Valentin. "But you are looking very well, Bob."
"Yes?"
"Yes, younger."
"Stuff," said I. "Pros't, Valentin."
"Pros't, Bob."
We put the glasses on the table and looked at one another. Then we both burst out laughing.
"Old boy," said Valentin.
"Damned old soak," I replied. "What shall we drink now?"
"Same again."
"Right."
Fred filled the glasses. ;
"Well, pros't, Valentin." ;
"Pros't, Bob."
"Wonderful word, 'pros't,' eh?"
"Word of all words."
We said it several times more.
Then Valentin left.
I continued to sit.
Apart from Fred nobody was there.
I looked at the old, lighted maps, the ships with their yellowing sails, and thought of Pat.
I should have liked to ring her up, but I forced myself not to.
I did not want to think so much about her.
I wanted to take her as an unexpected, delightful gift, that had come and would go again—nothing more.
I meant not to give room to the thought that it could ever be more.
I knew too well that all love has the desire for eternity and that therein lies its eternal torment.
Nothing lasts. Nothing.
"Give us another glass, Fred," said I.
A man and a woman came in.
They had a cobbler at the bar.
The woman looked tired, the man lustful.
They left again soon.
I emptied the glass.
Perhaps it would have been better if I had not gone to see Pat this afternoon.
I would never be free again of that picture—the twilit room, the soft, blue evening shadows, and the beautiful, curled-up figure of the girl talking in her deep, husky voice about her life and her desire for life.
Damn it, I'm getting sentimental.
What had been till now a breathless, surprising adventure was melting into the mists of affection; had it not already laid firmer hold on me than I knew or cared for; hadn't I discovered only to-day how much I had changed?
Why had I gone away? why did I not stay with her as I had meant to?
Ach, damn, I would think no more about it, one way or the other.