WHITEWASH
Victoria, haloed in cigarette smoke, looked vividly down on him. He stretched himself, and yawned. The liquor drowsed through his veins. He was very, very tired, and glad to forget his troubles. He disapproved of drinking, particularly at crucial moments. It was a very pernicious habit—but—after all—when one's thoughts were all disagreeable, why not muddle them?
The noise had ceased down-stairs. No longer the clink of china, nor the wrangling of argumentative voices, no longer the cheerful shout of Gustave, or Hortense, down the dumb-waiter, "Deux bœuf a la mode, trois haricots, une demi-tasse." He fumbled for his watch, and glanced at the time. Half-past ten. Stumblingly he rose, and made his way to the window, threw up the sash, and gazed uncertainly out. Across the way silhouettes came and went upon the drawn-down shades; further on he saw the blurred outline of the lady of the amazing lingerie. The stars overhead shone with a palpitating, uneven light. But, oh, how good was the fresh night air upon his face. He glanced once more at the bed. It was inviting with its red eider-down pillows—he would give up and
