The apartment house had a foyer. It was tiled in grimy white and brown squares. The walls were rough and dark. Dot had always thought of oak bark, or rather she thought of trees; she didn't know the name of any particular one.
Two chairs stared lonesomely at each other across a wide empty gap. They were pensioners. You could picture them in years gone by, important and useful in a high-ceilinged room where a fire burned brightly and whisky and soda stood on a tray near by. You didn't know why you thought of whisky and soda, but you did, and you looked again at the chairs. Pensioners. Fit for further service, but not concordant with the demands of the day. You fancied some one saying, "But you can't destroy them—" and so they stood miserable and embarrassed in their uselessness. Foyer chairs.
There was a telephone booth, too, for the convenience of the tenants, and a rug with its edges frayed and its jolly colors dimming with cruel gradualness. You knew that in time it would be a strange nondescript shade.
The stairs stood beside the telephone booth. They were marble and gave an air of elegance to the foyer, Dot thought. It never occurred to her that there should be an elevator.
Dot was standing on the third marble step looking down at Eddie. They were truly alone now. Edna Driggs had left them together.
"I suppose you're so popular that I'll never see you again," Eddie said. There was irony in his tone. He didn't doubt Dot's popularity, but he was following a
