He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. "Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently.
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