She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Not I. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. “One hardly knows—all the time. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her.
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