Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/37

gave up her rosy dream and resigned herself to their gloomy room where one lone window sucked in the soot from the nearby laundry. Though it could be washed out of the soiled linens, the dirt found a home in the lungs of the laundry workers and the tenants clustered around, bringing nights of suffocating, hacking coughs.

On Sundays the room would be crowded with friends. They would perch anywhere-on the bed, the window-sill, the dresser, and on a cobbler's bench. It wasn't so much the refreshments Gertrude served that brought them together, as the chance to talk freely and frankly, to discuss art or politics, or to enter into a discussion of more cultured and abstruse matters-such as the philosophy of Bergson, or the theories of Einstein. At these soirées Morris was in his element. He was like the ruler of a literary kingdom, astounding his subjects with his range of knowledge, his grasp of theory which he declaimed was vital to right action.

It was to this dark flat they had brought their cousin Anna, newly arrived from Poland, and shared with her their bed, their food, and the warmth of their hearts. Anna was Morris's ardent disciple listening to his wise words as if they were royal edicts that were inspired by God.

Following his usual custom, Morris sat down to his evening meal with a newspaper spread in front of him. Gertrude puttered restlessly about, throwing furtive glances at him and searching for an opportunity to begin her story. The secret she was concealing burdened her; she had to share it with him. When at last he had finished his tea and was contentedly puffing at his pipe, she came over to him and put her hand caressingly on his shoulder. In a thin, almost childish voice she asked:

"Tell me, Morris, is there anything new today?"

Morris didn't answer but kept his eyes on his newspaper.