I glanced up. My jaw dropped.
There in the window stood the dumpy, seedy little woman!!
So suddenly it was clear. The beautiful redhead was his wife! She danced, she sang, she talked loud and long, a brilliant intellectual, the goddess Siva, thousand-limbed, the finest throw pillow ever sewn by mortal hand. Yet she was strangely — tiring.
So my friend Quillan had taken this obscure Village room where, two nights a week, he could sit quietly in the mouse-brown silence or walk on the dim streets with this good homely dumpy comfortably mute woman who was not his wife at all, as I had quickly supposed, but his mistress!
I looked from Quillan to his plump companion in the window above and wrung his hand with new warmth and understanding. „Mum's the word!“ I said. The last I saw of them, they were seated in a delicatessen, Quillan and his mistress, their eyes gently touching each other, saying nothing, eating pastrami sandwiches. He too had, if you think about it, the best of all possible worlds.»
The train roared, shouted its whistle and slowed. Both men, rising, stopped and looked at each other in surprise. Both spoke at once:
«You get off at this stop?»
Both nodded, smiling.
Silently they made their way back and, as the train stopped in the chill December night, alighted and shook hands.
«Well, give my best to Mr. Smith.»
«And mine to Mr. Quillan!»
Two horns honked from opposite ends of the station. Both men looked at one car. A beautiful woman was in it. Both looked at the other car. A beautiful woman was in it.
They separated, looking back at each other like two schoolboys, each stealing a glance at the car toward which the other was moving.
«I wonder,» thought the old man, «if that woman down there is…»
«I wonder,» thought the young man, «if that lady in his car could be…»
But both were running now. Two car doors slammed like pistol shots ending a matinee.
The cars drove off. The station platform stood empty. It being December and cold, snow soon fell like a curtain.