Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/304

302 "Johnny," he asked, "what's happened to the boys who used to call on me, Mr. Dennett and the others?"

"Your young lady told every one of them to stay away. I heard her talking to the thin tall one, Feathers, I think you call him."

"But they haven't even 'phoned me."

"Must be a reason for it, sir," said the boy, as he closed the door.

When she told him that they would have dinner in town and that she had purchased tickets for a play, it was already too late for him to reject her invitation. He would go, he knew. And he would discover the real reason why the girl persisted in treating him as a charge, for whom she was responsible. His mind was clearer now. Unhealthy fear was gone. Palatable heavy brandy had taken the place of gin. He drank it in small quantities at her suggestion.

The daily scene, no longer peopled by the shadowy forms of Verne Dennett or Feathers or Kewpie, seemed brighter. Yet as he dressed, shaving himself, he noticed that he looked much older than formerly. Lines had crept into his face. His mouth was strained and its corners sagged. Beneath his eyes blue shadows, and the color of his cheeks was gone. His body was stiff. Knees cracked and other joints lacked flexibility. Yet he was still young, he knew, still in the twenties.

He was spent. No doubt of that. Regarding himself closely in the mirror, he saw into his own eyes. Questioning eyes these were. Eyes that could not explain the meaning of what they saw.

Later, dressed in the tuxedo he had bought for "The King's Own," he met her. She was so concise, so