made as though to knock, then suddenly took fright and lowered his-fist without touching the door.
He couldn't go through with it. They would have to send Miss Carlisle.
The housekeeper, who had been watching from the end of the hall, came up before he could escape.
"She doesn't answer," Homer said hurriedly.
"Did you knock hard enough? That slut is in there." Before Homer could reply, she pounded on the door. "Open up!" she shouted.
Homer heard someone move inside, then the door opened a few inches.
"Who is it, please?" a light voice asked.
"Mr. Simpson, the bookkeeper," he gasped.
"Come in, please."
The door opened a little wider and Homer went in without daring to look around at the housekeeper. He stumbled to the center of the room and stopped. Al first he was conscious only of the heavy odor of alcohol and stale tobacco, but then underneath he smelled a metallic perfume. His eyes moved in a slow circle. On the floor was a litter of clothing, newspapers, magazines, and bottles. Miss Martin was huddled up on a corner of the bed. She was wearing a man's black silk dressing gown with light blue cuffs and lapel facings. Her close-cropped hair was the color and texture of straw and she looked like a little boy. Her youthfulness was heightened by her blue button eyes, pink button nose and red button mouth.
Homer was too busy with his growing excitement to speak or even think. He closed his eyes to tend it better, nursing carefully what he felt. He had to be careful, for if he went too fast, it might wither and then he would be cold again. It continued to grow.
"Go away, please, I'm drunk," Miss Martin said.
Homer neither moved nor spoke.
She suddenly began to sob. The coarse, broken sounds she made seemed to come from her stomach. She buried her face in her hands and pounded the floor with her feet.
Homer's feelings were so intense that his head bobbed stiffly on his neck like that of a toy Chinese dragon.
"I'm broke. I haven't any money. I haven't a dime. I'm broke, I tell you."
Homer pulled out his wallet and moved on the girl as though to strike her with it.
She cowered away from him and her sobs grew stronger.
He dropped the wallet in her lap and stood over her, not knowing what else to do. When she saw the wallet, she smiled, but continued sobbing.
"Sit down," she said.
He sat down on the bed beside her.
"You strange man," she said coyly. "I could kiss you for being so nice."
He caught her in his arms and hugged her. His suddenness frightened her and she tried to pull away, but he held on and began awkwardly to caress her. He was completely unconscious of what he was doing. He knew only that what he felt was marvelously sweet and that he had to make the sweetness carry through to the poor, sobbing woman.
Miss Martin's sobs grew less and soon stopped altogether. He could feel her fidget and gather Strength. The telephone rang.
"Don't answer it," she said, beginning to sob once more. He pushed her away gently and stumbled to the telephone. It was Miss Carlisle.
"Are you all right?" she asked, "or shall we send for the cops?"
"All right," he said, hanging up.
It was all over. He couldn't go back to the bed.
Miss Martin laughed at his look of acute distress.
"Bring the gin, you enormous cow," she shouted gaily. "It's under the table."
He saw her stretch herself out in a way that couldn't be mistaken. He ran out of the room.
Now in California, he was crying because he had never seen Miss Martin again. The next day the manager had told him that he had done a good job and that she had paid up and checked out.
Homer tried to find her. There were two other hotels in Wayneville, small run-down houses, and he inquired at both of them. He also asked in the few rooming places, but with no success. She had left town.
He settled back into his regular routine, working ten hours, eating two, sleeping the rest. Then he caught cold and had been advised to come to California. He could easily afford not to work