and the aunt circled about as if they were afraid of interfering
with the girl. Then she got up all at once, gave me her hand, and
said she hoped she would see me again."

While he was speaking Renouard saw again the sway of her figure in
a movement of grace and strength--felt the pressure of her hand--
heard the last accents of the deep murmur that came from her throat
so white in the light of the window, and remembered the black rays
of her steady eyes passing off his face when she turned away. He
remembered all this visually, and it was not exactly pleasurable.
It was rather startling like the discovery of a new faculty in
himself. There are faculties one would rather do without--such,
for instance, as seeing through a stone wall or remembering a
person with this uncanny vividness. And what about those two
people belonging to her with their air of expectant solicitude!
Really, those figures from home got in front of one. In fact,
their persistence in getting between him and the solid forms of the
everyday material world had driven Renouard to call on his friend
at the office. He hoped that a little common, gossipy information
would lay the ghost of that unexpected dinner-party. Of course the
proper person to go to would have been young Dunster, but, he
couldn't stand Willie Dunster--not at any price.

In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his desk,
and smiled a faint knowing smile.

"Striking girl--eh?" he said.

The incongruity of the word was enough to make one jump out of the
chair. Striking! That girl striking! Stri . . .! But Renouard