It occurred to him just at that moment
that never since he had known her had he seen her interested to the
slightest degree in any man. He looked back at her thoughtfully. She
was young, good-looking, too catholic in her views of life and its
possibilities to refuse in any way to recognize its inevitable
tendencies. Yet he told himself complacently as he sipped his wine and
watched her gazing with amused interest at the little groups of people
about the place, that there must be in her composition a lack of
sentiment. Never for a second in their intercourse had she varied from
her usual good-natured cheerfulness. If there had been a shadow she had
brushed it away ruthlessly. Even on that terrible afternoon at Enton
she had sat in the cab white and silent--she had appealed to him in no
way for sympathy.
The waiter retreated with a bow. She shot a swift glance across at him.
"I object to being scrutinized," she declared. "Is it the plainness of
my hat or the depth of my wrinkles to which you object?"
"Object!" he repeated.
"Yes. You were looking for something which you did not find.
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