Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/74

72 pain made him turn toward the door. He wanted her.

Coldly the pale light in the corridor illumined the dreary walls. He was such a weak fool. What of it? He would be strong. He would renounce his own imaginary scruples and warm himself to her, in love with her, despite everything.

He knocked on the door. No reply. It was unlocked. He entered the room, another drab chamber such as his own. She was not there.

He ran downstairs to the desk.

"Did Miss Rogers leave the hotel?" he asked the drowsy night clerk.

"Ain't seen no one since one o'clock," the man said. "Maybe she slipped out the side way. It's a warmish sorta night, just right for a walk or a—" He winked a drooping eye-lid with almost malicious delight, sighed deeply and went back to sleep.

The waitress was busy at the other end of the cafeteria. "I'm sorry I acted that way last night," Anita said. In the cold morning light, her face was gray and lined.

"This coffee," she added, "will take that taste outa my mouth. It's the ginger ale. I like seltzer water with my gin."

"Where did you go?" he asked.

"For a walk. Found myself in the alley back of the hotel with my dress on my arm. That shows you how nuts I can be."

"You better not drink so much."

"It wasn't the drink," she explained. "At least not entirely."