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And so the name Solwicz, which I hate; and so the fear when I found you watching me in the street a second time, and my relief to learn that you were not Russian-" "Of course I understand," said Peter. He put his hand upon her head.
He did not need to be sure their vision was absolutely true, yet the suspicion developed that they saw more clearly than he, and acted more purely. Mowbray did not lack anything of valor, but he lacked the fire somehow. He loved Berthe Solwicz, could have made every sacrifice for her, but that was a concrete thing. Fallow's bony knees were close to the fire.
Each had their work, and many hours each day were required for it; still, after the first fortnight, they managed to meet often. Peter's time was hers, for he had the habit of leaving his feature-letter for the quiet hours of the night. "I hate the name of Solwicz," she told him the first time he came to her house, "especially from you. And you must call me Berthe, not Bertha."
Fallows replenished the fire and turned to Berthe Solwicz. "All evening you've had something in your mind to tell me and I've been giving forth. You must forgive a man for so many words when he has been living with little children so long. What is it?" "Just a reading of a tea-cup to-day but everything you said has its meaning concerned in it."
The premonition came that he was to take away the image of Berthe Solwicz at its highest inimitably enticing to his heart, the girlish and utterly feminine spirit that had captivated the man in his breast.
Peter had left her address somewhere, but it was not at hand; neither was her house available to telephone. Lonegan took down the Warsaw directory, and came finally to the street-number after this line: "Bertha Solwicz, sempstress." She, too, was almost a stranger in Warsaw, and lonely.
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