Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. Prudence Remenham. Funk! I’ll see it out. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. 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. “With me I believe that it is more. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply.
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