presence of an injury in his voice. She was a little weary at being
eternally condemned for what she couldn't help. Any failure was as
much Arnaud Hallet's as hers; he had had his opportunity, all that
for which he had implored her. Her thoughts returned to Dodge
Pleydon. April was well advanced, and he had written that he'd be
back and see them in the spring. Linda listened to her heart but it
was unhastened by a beat. She would be very glad to have him at
hand, in her life again, of course.

Then the direction of her mind veered--what did he still think of
her? Probably he had altogether recovered from his love for her. It
had been a warm day, and Arnaud had opened a window; but now she was
aware of a cold air on her shoulder and she asked him abruptly to
lower the sash. Linda remembered, with a lingering sense of triumph,
the Susanna Noda whom Dodge had left at a party for her. There had
been a great many Susannas in his life; the reason for this was the
absence of any overwhelming single influence. It might be that now--he
had written of the change in the subjects of his work--such a guide
had come into his existence. She hoped she had. Yet, in view of the
announced silliness of women, she didn't want him to be cheaply
deluded.

He was an extremely human man.

But she, Linda, it seemed, was an inhuman woman. The days ran into
weeks that added another month to spring; a June advanced sultry
with heat; and, suddenly as usual, a maid at the door of her room
announced Pleydon. It was five o'clock in the afternoon, she had to
dress, and she sent him a message that he mustn't expect her in a
hurry. She paused in her deliberate preparations for a long