She had sat for a moment in silence, and he had believed he followed the
movement of her thought. He had felt certain that she was considering
whether she would tell him a lie, recount some happy plan invented at
the moment to deceive him. Feeling this certainty, he had looked at her,
and his eyes had asked her to tell him the truth. And he had believed
that she yielded to them, when at length she said:

"I haven't any special plans. I dare say I shall stay on quietly here."

She had not given him an opportunity of making a rejoinder, but had at
once turned the conversation to some quite different topic. And again he
had divined pride working busily within her.

She must miss him.

She must miss any one who occasionally stepped in to break her solitude.
Sometimes he had wondered at this solitude's completeness. He wondered
again now. Everybody had their friends, their intimates, whether
delightful or preposterous. Who were hers? Of course the average woman
had "dropped" her long ago. But there are other women in London besides
the average woman. There are brilliant women of Bohemia, there are
clever women even belonging to society who "take their own way," and
know precisely whom they choose, whoever interests or attracts them.
And--there are friends, faithful through changes, misfortunes, even
disasters. Where were Mrs. Chepstow's? He did not dare to ask.

He recalled his first visit to her, not with any maudlin sentimentality,
but with a quiet earnestness: the empty room looking to the river, the
open piano and the music upon it, the few roses, and the books. He
recalled "The Scarlet Letter" bound in white, and her partial quotation