“Isn’t there something about any woman you don’t get at?” said Eldridge.
“That’s it!” assented the man. “It isn’t just Cordelia. It’s all of them--in back of ’em, somehow. I can’t tell you just how it is, but I’ve thought of it a lot--I guess there isn’t anything I haven’t thought of--since I knew--lying awake nights and thinking. Somehow, I knew, the first day it came to me--I knew there wasn’t any use... since the day I come on ’em at Merwin’s.”
The lawyer’s hand, making its little marks, stopped--and went on. “They were at Merwin’s--together?” he said.
“Everybody goes to Merwin’s,” said the man. “It wasn’t their being there; it was the way they looked when I saw ’em.... They were sitting in one of them little alcove places, you know--”
“The curtains were open--wide open,” said the man. “Anybody could ’a’ looked in. There wasn’t anything wrong about it. But I saw their faces--both of ’em--and I knew.... They were just sitting quiet--the way people do when they’re alone.... There’s something different about the way people sit--when they’re alone--by themselves--I don’t know as you’ve ever noticed it?”
“I have noticed it,” said Eldridge. “Quiet and happy--” said the man, “and not talking--and not needing to talk.” He took up his hat. “Well--you know where to find me. I shan’t bother you like this again----” He stood up.
Eldridge held out a hand. “I am glad you told me. It helps--to understand--the case.”
The man’s thick face looked at him. “I don’t understand it myself,” he said, “but I’ve got to go through with it.”
ELDRIDGE went on making little marks on the edge of the paper. He no longer stared at the blotter; he was seeing things. Gordon Barstow’s recital had shown things to him in perspective and his own trouble seemed moved far away from him to a kind of clear place. He sat and looked at it--making little marks on the paper. Rosalind was not to blame. A woman like Rosalind had the right--she could do what she wanted! What had _he_ ever done to win her--to keep her? Not even money. He had kept it for himself--and built up a comfortable fortune.... He had the fortune--yes. And he had lost Rosalind.... He suddenly saw himself in the clear light--he was not lovable like old Barstow. The vision grew before him--all his saving closeness, his dulness--a lifeless prig!... And then the picture of Rosalind, the vision of her in her alcove--“the way people sit when they are alone--I don’t know as you ever noticed--?” old Barstow had said.