“Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning,” he said. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father.
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