Carnac compelled thought. When he was away she wanted him; when he was
near she liked to quarrel with him. When they were together, one moment
she wanted to take his hands in her hands, and in the next she wanted to
push him over some great cliff--he was so maddening. He provoked the
devil in her; yet he made her sing the song of Eden. What was it?
As she asked the question she heard a firm step on the path. It was
Carnac. She turned and stood waiting, leaning against the table,
watching the door through which he presently came. He was dressed in
grey. His coat was buttoned. He carried a soft grey hat, and somehow
his face gave her a feeling that he had come to say good-bye.
It startled her; and yet, though she was tempted to grip her breast,
she did not. Presently she spoke.
"I think you're a very idle man. Why aren't you at work?"
"I am at work," Carnac said cheerfully.
"Work is not all paint and canvas of course. There has to be the
thinking beforehand. Well, of what are you thinking now?"
"Of the evening train to New York."
His face was turned away from her at the instant, because he did not wish
to see the effect of his words. He would have seen that apprehension
came to her eyes. Her mouth opened in quick amazement.
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