An air of constraint hung over the party. Again and again
Kirk hoped that Hank would embark on the epic of his life, but shyness
kept Hank dumb.
He had heard, on reaching New York, that Kirk was married, but he had
learned no details, and had conjured up in his mind the vision of a
jolly little girl of the Bohemian type, who would make a fuss over him
as Kirk's oldest friend. Confronted with Ruth, he lost a nerve which
had never before failed him. This gorgeous creature, he felt, would
never put up with those racy descriptions of wild adventures which had
endeared him to Kirk. As soon as he could decently do so, he left, and
Kirk, returning to the studio after seeing him out, sat down moodily,
trying to convince himself against his judgment that the visit had not
been such a failure after all.
Ruth was playing the piano softly. She had turned out all the lights
except one, which hung above her head, shining on her white arms as
they moved. From where he sat Kirk could see her profile. Her eyes were
half closed.
The sight of her, as it always did, sent a thrill through him, but he
was conscious of an ache behind it. He had hoped so much that Hank
would pass, and he knew that he had not. Why was it that two people so
completely one as Ruth and himself could not see Hank with the same
eyes?
He knew that she had thought him uncouth and impossible.
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