She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. She meditated profoundly through several enormous cold hours on all that had happened and all that she had done since the swirl of the suffrage movement had submerged her personal affairs. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing.
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