What nonsense to be so agitated.  Nobody could remember the name from that evening, weeks and weeks ago.  And what if they did?  What could they make of it?

It seemed to her that dusk had fallen in the garden.  Where was that lucent sunset air?

She heard Eugenia’s voice going on, and Neale chiming in with a laugh, and did not understand what they said.  Surely everybody must have forgotten.

She hazarded a quick glance at Mr. Welles’ face and drew a long breath of relief.  He had forgotten, that was evident.  She looked beyond him to Marsh.  He too would certainly have forgotten.

He was waiting for her eyes.  And when they met his, she felt the lightning flash.  He had not forgotten.

II

Marsh suddenly found it unbearable.  He wasn’t used to keeping the curb on himself like this, and he hadn’t the least intention of learning how to do it.  A fierce, physical irritability overcame him, and he stopped short in the hall, just because he could not stand the silly chatter that was always flowing from these silly people about their foolish affairs.  If they only knew what he was leaving unsaid!

He had not meant to make Marise halt, too, his movement having been a mere unconsidered reflex, but of course she did stop, apparently surprised by the brusqueness of his action, and faced him there in the dusky hall-way.  She was so close to him that he could see every detail of her face and person, just as he could at night when he closed his eyes; so close that for an instant he felt her breath on his face.  He ground his teeth, minded, that instant, to throw down the trumpery little wall of convention.  It couldn’t stand, he knew with an experienced certainty of his own power that it couldn’t stand for an instant against him.  The day he chose to put his shoulder to it, down it would go in a heap of rubble.

But the wall was not all.  Usually it was all.  But with this woman it was nothing, a mere accident.  Beyond it she stood, valid, and looked at him out of those long eyes of hers. What was in her mind? She looked at him now, quietly, just as usual, made some light casual remark, and effortlessly, as though she had some malign and invincible charm, she had passed from out his power again, and was walking with that straight, sure tread of hers, down to the door.

If he could have done it, he would have struck at her from behind.

He could get no hold on her, could not take the first step.  All during those weeks and weeks, he had thrown out his net, and had caught enough facts, Lord knows.  But had he any certainty that he had put them together right?  He had not yet caught in her any one tone or look or phrase that would give him the unmistakable clue.  He had set down words and words and words that would tell him what her life really was, if he only knew the alphabet of her language.