“I feel sort of—­smothered,” Bertha said; “suppose we walk.”

“Gladly,” answered Frank, “but what about the coupe?”

“There’s one of these new livery stables with machine shop attached not far away.  They call it a garage....  We’ll leave the brougham there,” she said.

* * * * *

The night was curiously still—­breathless one might have called it.  While the temperature was not high, there was an effect of warmth, vaguely disturbing like the presage of a storm.  As they traversed a region of hotels and apartment houses, Frank and Bertha noted many open windows; men and women staring out half dreamily.  They passed a livery stable, out of which there came a weird uncanny dissonance of horses neighing in their stalls.

“Tell me of your actress friend.  Do you see her often?” Bertha asked.

“Not very.  She’s a good pal.  But she’s ... well, not like you.”

Her eyes searched him.  “Do you mean she’s not as—­pretty, Frank?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered.  “It’s because I love you, dear.  Aleta’s right enough.  But she’s not—­oh, you know—­essential.”

Bertha squeezed his arm.  Was silent for a moment.  Then, “Aleta’s father was a circus rider?”

“Acrobat.  Yes, he was killed when she was quite a child.”

“But she remembers him; they were married, her mother” and he.”

“Why, yes, I suppose so ... naturally.”

There was another silence.  Suddenly he turned on her, perplexed.  “Bertha, what is wrong with you tonight?”

They were crossing a little park high up above the city whose lights lay, shimmering and misty, below.  The stillness was obtrusive here.  Not a leaf stirred.  There was no one about.  They might have been alone upon some tropic peak.

“I—­can’t tell you, Frank.”  Her tone of blended longing and despair caught at his heart.

Impetuously his arms went around her.  “Dear,” he said unsteadily.  “Dear, I want you....  Oh, Bertha, I’ve waited so long!  I don’t care any more if you’re rich ...  I’m going to—­you’ve got to promise....”

She tried to protest, to push him away; but Frank held her close.  And, after a moment, like a tired child’s, her head lay quiet on his shoulder; her arms stole round his neck; she began to weep softly.

* * * * *

The horror came at dawn.

Frank, startled from a late and restless slumber, thought that he was being shaken or attacked by some intruder.  He sprang up, sleepily bewildered.  The room rocked with a quick, sharp, jerking motion that was strangely terrifying.  There was a dull indescribable rumbling, punctuated by a sound of falling things.  A typewriter in one end of the room went over on the floor.  A shaving mug danced on the shelf and fell.  The windows rattled and a picture on the wall swayed drunkenly.

“Damn!” Frank rubbed his eyes.  “An earthquake!”