He pursued that line no further. She took up the reins of the
conversation and drove it along smooth but barren paths. "It's nice
that you could come to-night. Looking for a practice must make so many
calls on your time. I shouldn't have been surprised not to see you at
all this winter. No one seems able to spare much time for acquaintances
in New York."

"Not at all," he said, ruffling a little within, "I shall find plenty
of time for my _friends_ this winter." Deliberately he emphasized the
word. "I hope nothing has happened to change our--friendship. Or does
Berkeley Center seem primitive and far away?"

For the first time that quality which he was calling in his mind her
"society shell" seemed to melt away from her. She had kept her eyelids
half closed; now they opened full.

"I am living on the memory of it," she said.

Here was his opening. A thousand incoherences rushed to his lips--and
stopped there. For another change came over her. Those lids, like
curtains drawn by stealth over what must not be revealed, sank half-way
over her eyes. An impalpable stiffening ran over her figure. She became
as a flower done in glass.

Simultaneously, an uneasiness as definite as a shadow, fell across his
spirit. He became conscious of a presence behind him. Involuntarily he
turned.

A woman was standing in the doorway leading to the hall.