Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/44

painting, with the difference that here Heaven was empty, while below, in the bed, a strange figure moved about comically, sat up, smiled eagerly, and stretched out two hairy arms.

"I hope you'll forgive the imposition," Soma said, and smiled. "I must have disturbed you; you're dressed to out. Please sit down, Anna, and make yourself comfortable. Are you too busy? Do you have an appointment?"

"It's no bother at all. Please don't worry." Anna looked around the room in bewilderment. For all its even rectangular shape and four honest walls the room was much smaller than her own, bare and unadorned. There wasn't a single chair. Near the bed stood a table, painted red, and on it in an even row, a Primus stove, a jug of milk, the remains of a loaf of bread, a book, an unwashed pan, and a red-shaped night-lamp. A pot of water, almost boiled out, steamed on top of the stove. It was this, apparently, that had filled the room with a cloud of vapor. On a small table near the door stood a basin of water and a piece of soap, and near it two clean towels hung on a bar. A colorless and faded curtain covered the window. A length of the same material stretched over the bed.

Soma pressed her fingers in his moist hot hand, forgetting to release them. Anna did not have the courage to draw away. A deep flush covered her cheeks. She somehow felt ashamed of her white blouse, her rouged lips, and the beret that perched over her eye. She felt ashamed of her soundness and health. A poignant wave of pain swept through her. "How he has changed," she thought. "That feverish look in his eyes; the flushed cheeks; the hot and moist hands!"

"How about some nice, hot tea, Soma?" she suggested, and felt herself flushing even more.