K.'s lamp still burned overhead, but his restless tramping about had
ceased. He must be reading--he read a great deal. She really ought to go
to bed. A neighborhood cat came stealthily across the Street, and stared
up at the little balcony with green-glowing eyes.

"Come on, Bill Taft," she said. "Reginald is gone, so you are welcome.
Come on."

Joe Drummond, passing the house for the fourth time that evening, heard her
voice, and hesitated uncertainly on the pavement.

"That you, Sid?" he called softly.

"Joe! Come in."

"It's late; I'd better get home."

The misery in his voice hurt her.

"I'll not keep you long. I want to talk to you."

He came slowly toward her.

"Well?" he said hoarsely.

"You're not very kind to me, Joe."

"My God!" said poor Joe. "Kind to you! Isn't the kindest thing I can do
to keep out of your way?"

"Not if you are hating me all the time."

"I don't hate you."

"Then why haven't you been to see me? If I have done anything--" Her voice
was a-tingle with virtue and outraged friendship.

"You haven't done anything but--show me where I get off."

He sat down on the edge of the balcony and stared out blankly.

"If that's the way you feel about it--"