THE TEETH
some, secure, an utter cheat, assuming in jest what they were irre–
deemably and forever. He did not cry out as he might have:
"That
was the truth; what you think you see now lies," and how
were they to know? Saying merely, "Goodnight," he was through
the door before they could, from their sick awareness of betrayal,
move or make answer.
He stamped noisily down the first flight of stairs, and tiptoed
swiftly back to listen for the last time at the door. They must have
stood as he had left them, clustered about the point from which he
had departed, for he could hear them clearly.
"Buffoon!" Bea cried, "I knew immediately-"
And Rose, "Men-they're all the--"
But "Oh," Hilda sobbed, "Oh, it was impossible. The very walls
rejected him! Oh Rose, dear Bea!" They fell together weeping and
repeating to each other the happy phrase, "The very walls rejected
him!"
On that he moved away, softly, softly, nursing the sense of tri–
umph that dogs or children, an unseen laugher in the night, would
dissipate, feeling down the dark well of the stairs his talisman, the
teeth. Later he would dream, in the half-sleep of heat, that when he
had tugged at the teeth, they would not come away.
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