He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. On the way home he was still thoughtful. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. All in a moment. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. We close the chapter. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack. He waved a hand toward the sea. ” “At any rate,” she declared, “your remarks decided me. They were only passers-by.
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