He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. It was hard to meet that gaze. “Mr. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. ” She smiled at him. ’ ‘And who, may I ask, is Dorothée?’ asked Gerald.
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