Poor Professor! he was horribly lonely . . . tried to hide it . . . always telling you how beneficial the training at the hospital would be for her . . . poor old chap! . . .
[His voice grows husky and uncertain—he controls it—straightens himself]
What time is it? . . .
[He takes out his watch mechanically and looks at it]
Ten after nine. . . . Nina ought to be here. . . .
[Then with sudden bitterness]
Will she feel any real grief over his death, I wonder? . . . I doubt it! . . . but why am I so resentful? . . . the two times I’ve visited the hospital she’s been pleasant enough . . . pleasantly evasive! . . . perhaps she thought her father had sent me to spy on her . . . poor Professor! . . . at least she answered his letters . . . he used to show them to me . . . pathetically overjoyed . . . newsy, loveless scripts, telling nothing whatever about herself . . . well, she won’t have to compose them any more . . . she never answered mine . . . she might at least have acknowledged them. . . . Mother thinks she’s behaved quite inexcusably . . .
[Then jealously]
I suppose every single damned inmate has fallen in love with her! . . . her eyes seemed cynical . . . sick with men . . . as though I’d looked into the eyes of a prostitute . . . not that I ever have . . . except that once . . . the dollar house . . . hers were like patent leather buttons in a saucer of blue milk! . . .
[Getting up with a movement of impatience]
The devil! . . . what beastly incidents our memories insist on cherishing! . . . the ugly and disgusting . . . the beautiful things we have to keep diaries to remember! . . .
