‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. But days had now passed. He made his speech a little elaborately. But probably not the truth. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. She let out a wail. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it.
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