He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. Grudgingly he admired her. A faint buzz above the ceiling witnessed that petrography, too, was active. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. I spend many delightful hours thinking of the pleasant and beautiful things of life. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. The blades on the top spun faster and faster. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed.
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