“WHY DIDN’T YOU WEAR YOUR EMERALD BRACELET?” ASKED Peter Keating. “Gordon Prescott’s so-called fiancée had everybody gaping at her star sapphire.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. I shall wear it next time,” said Dominique.

“It was a nice party. Did you have a good time?”

“I always have a good time.”

“So did I ... Only ... Oh God, do you want to know the truth?”

“No.”

“Dominique, I was bored to death. Vincent Knowlton is a pain in the neck. He’s such a damn snob. I can’t stand him.” He added, cautiously: “I didn’t show it, did I?”

“No. You behaved very well. You laughed at all his jokes—even when no one else did.”

“Oh, you noticed that? It always works.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“You think I shouldn’t, don’t you?”

“I haven’t said that.”

“You think it’s ... low, don’t you?”

“I don’t think anything is low.”

He slumped farther in his armchair; it made his chin press uncomfortably against his chest; but he did not care to move again. A fire crackled in the fireplace of his living room. He had turned out all the lights, save one lamp with a yellow silk shade; but it created no air of intimate relaxation, it only made the place look deserted, like a vacant apartment with the utilities shut off. Dominique sat at the other end of the room, her thin body fitted obediently to the contours of a straight-backed chair; she did not look stiff, only too poised for comfort. They were alone, but she sat like a lady at a public function; like a lovely dress dummy in a public show window—a window facing a busy intersection.

They had come home from a tea party at the house of Vincent Knowlton, a prominent young society man, Keating’s new friend. They had had a quiet dinner together, and now their evening was free. There were no other social engagements till tomorrow.

“You shouldn’t have laughed at theosophy when you spoke to Mrs. Marsh,” he said. “She believes in it.”

“I’m sorry. I shall be more careful.”

He waited to have her open a subject of conversation. She said nothing. He thought suddenly that she had never spoken to him first—in the twenty months of their marriage. He told himself that that was ridiculous and impossible; he tried to recall an occasion when she had addressed him. Of course he had; he remembered her asking him: “What time will you be back tonight?” and “Do you wish to include the Dixons for Tuesday’s dinner?” and many things like that.

He glanced at her. She did not look bored or anxious to ignore him. She sat there, alert and ready, as if his company held her full interest; she did not reach for a book, she did not stare at some distant thought of her own. She looked straight at him, not past him, as if she were waiting for a conversation. He realized that she had always looked straight at him,