The result of the dinner that evening was that Evie grew more fretful.  After the departure of her guests, she evolved a brief formula which she used frequently during the next few weeks:  “There’s something!” With her quick eyes and quicker intuitions, it was impossible for her not to see that Ford and Miriam possessed common memories of the kind that distinguish old acquaintances from new ones.  When it did not transpire in chance words she caught it in their glances or divined it in the mental atmosphere.  As autumn passed into early winter she became nervous, peevish, and exacting; she lost much from her pretty ways and something from her looks.  In the family the change was ascribed to the fatigue incidental to the sudden round of lunches, dinners, dances, suppers, theatre-parties, opera-goings, and “teas” with which American boys and girls of a certain age are surfeited pitilessly with pleasure, as Strasburg geese are stuffed for patA(C) de foie gras.  Ford, however, suspected the true reason, and Miriam knew it.  They met as seldom as might be; and yet, with the many things requiring explanation between them, frank conversation became imperative.

“You see how it is already,” Miriam said to him.  “It’s making her unhappy from the start.  You can’t conceal the truth from her very long.”

“She isn’t fretting about the truth; she’s fretting about what she imagines.”

“She’s fretting because she doesn’t understand, and she’ll go on fretting till she does.  I’m not sorry.  It must show you—­”

“It shows me the necessity of our being married as soon as possible, so that I may take care of her, and put a stop to it.”

“I agree with you that you’d put a stop to it.  You’d put a stop to everything.  She wouldn’t live a year—­or you wouldn’t.  Either she’d die—­or she’d abhor you.  And if she didn’t die, you’d want to.”

“I wish to the Lord I had died—­eight years ago.  The great mistake I made was when the lumber-jacks loosed my hand-cuffs and started me through the woods.  They called it giving me a chance, and for a few minutes I thought it was one.  A chance!  Good God!  I remember feeling, as I ran, that I was deserting something.  I didn’t know what it was just then, but I’ve understood it since.  It would have been a pluckier thing to have been in my coffin as Norrie Ford—­or even doing time—­than to be here as Herbert Strange.”

She said nothing for the moment, but as they walked along side by side he shot a glance at her, and saw her coloring.  They had met in the park.  He was going toward the house in Seventy-second Street when she was coming away from it.  Seizing the opportunity of a few words in private, he had turned to stroll back with her.

“I didn’t expect you to be here as Herbert Strange,” she said, as though in self-excuse.  “I had to give you a name that was like my own, when I was writing letters about your ticket, and sending checks.  I had to do everything to avoid suspicion at a time when Greenport was watched.  I thought you might be able to take your own name or something like it—­”