He stopped and stood perfectly still.
The voice came faintly from above, through the closed door at the front of the upper hall, not yet within his eyes’ range:
“I can’t give you anything but love, baby,
That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of…”
It was thin and colorless and it could scarcely be called a tune. Not a monotone, rather three or four false and mongrel tones, alternating crazily into a petty and exasperating chaos. There was a long pause, and then it came again:
“Happiness, and I guess…”
It stopped.
He trembled violently, then controlled himself with an effort, and remained motionless. The voice sounded once more, more faintly than before:
“I can’t give you anything but love, baby,
That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of…”
Then the pause again, longer than before; and then:
“Happiness, and I guess…”
Silence.
So, he thought, she isn’t seated, reading; she’s moving around doing something, going back and forth from the front to the bedroom; can’t hear her footsteps, probably she has on those slippers with the felt soles.…