stars. So, as the two sat together, the back of the world was
the wall and closed door behind them; and Russell, when he was
away from Alice, always thought of her as sitting there before
the closed door. A glamour was about her thus, and a spell upon
him; but he had a formless anxiety never put into words: all the
pictures of her in his mind stopped at the closed door.

He had another anxiety; and, for the greater part, this was of
her own creating. She had too often asked him (no matter how
gaily) what he heard about her, too often begged him not to hear
anything. Then, hoping to forestall whatever he might hear, she
had been at too great pains to account for it, to discredit and
mock it; and, though he laughed at her for this, telling her
truthfully he did not even hear her mentioned, the everlasting
irony that deals with all such human forefendings prevailed.

Lately, he had half confessed to her what a nervousness she had
produced. "You make me dread the day when I'll hear somebody
speaking of you. You're getting me so upset about it that if I
ever hear anybody so much as say the name 'Alice Adams,' I'll
run!" The confession was but half of one because he laughed; and
she took it for an assurance of loyalty in the form of burlesque.

She misunderstood: he laughed, but his nervousness was genuine.

After any stroke of events, whether a happy one or a catastrophe,
we see that the materials for it were a long time gathering, and
the only marvel is that the stroke was not prophesied. What bore
the air of fatal coincidence may remain fatal indeed, to this
later view; but, with the haphazard aspect dispelled, there is