While the temperature was not high, there was an effect of warmth,
vaguely disturbing like the presage of a storm. As they traversed a
region of hotels and apartment houses, Frank and Bertha noted many open
windows; men and women staring out half dreamily. They passed a livery
stable, out of which there came a weird uncanny dissonance of horses
neighing in their stalls.
"Tell me of your actress friend. Do you see her often?" Bertha asked.
"Not very. She's a good pal. But she's ... well, not like you."
Her eyes searched him. "Do you mean she's not as--pretty, Frank?"
"Oh, I don't know," he answered. "It's because I love you, dear. Aleta's
right enough. But she's not--oh, you know--essential."
Bertha squeezed his arm. Was silent for a moment. Then, "Aleta's father
was a circus rider?"
"Acrobat. Yes, he was killed when she was quite a child."
"But she remembers him; they were married, her mother" and he."
"Why, yes, I suppose so ... naturally."
There was another silence. Suddenly he turned on her, perplexed.
"Bertha, what is wrong with you tonight?"
They were crossing a little park high up above the city whose lights
lay, shimmering and misty, below.
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