He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man. ” For a moment or two he did not speak.
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