It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game—both of us. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. It has all been a mistake. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy.
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