evening. Linda was relieved by the absence of any questioning;
indeed nothing contemporary, she realized, was held to be significant.
"I thought Arnaud would be in to-night," Elouise Lowrie said; "he
knew Linda was expected." No one, however, appeared; and Linda went
up early to her room. There, too, were only candles, a pale wavering
illumination in which the past, her father, were extraordinarily
nearby. A sense of pride was communicated to her by so much that
time had been unable to shake. The bed was steeped in the magic of
serene traditions.




XX


Arnaud Hallet appeared for dinner the evening after Linda's arrival;
a quiet man with his youth lost, slightly stooped shoulders,
crumpled shoes and a green cloth bag. But he had a memorable voice
and an easy distinction of manner; in addition to these she
discovered, at the table, a lighter amusing sense of the absurd. She
watched him--as he poured the sherry from a decanter with a silver
label hung on a chain--with a feeling of mild approbation. On the
whole he was nice but uninteresting. What a different man from
Pleydon!

The days passed in a pleasant deliberation, with Arnaud Hallet
constantly about the house or garden, while Linda's thoughts
continually returned to the sculptor. He was clearer than the
actuality of her mother and the Feldts or the recreated image of her