"Edwarda, I have not seen you for four days."

"Four days, yes--so it is. Oh, but I have been so busy. Come and look."

She led me into the big room. The tables had been moved out, the chairs
set round the walls, everything shifted; the chandelier, the stove, and
the walls were fantastically decorated with heather and black stuff from
the store. The piano stood in one corner.

These were her preparations for "the ball."

"What do you think of it?" she asked.

"Wonderful," I said.

We went out of the room.

I said: "Listen, Edwarda--have you quite forgotten me?"

"I can't understand you," she answered in surprise. "You saw all I had
been doing--how could I come and see you at the same time?"

"No," I agreed; "perhaps you couldn't." I was sick and exhausted with
want of sleep, my speech grew meaningless and uncontrolled; I had been
miserable the whole day. "No, of course you could not come. But I was
going to say ... in a word, something has changed; there is something
wrong. Yes. But I cannot read in your face what it is. There is
something very strange about your brow, Edwarda. Yes, I can see it now."