She was silent. For the first time for an hour or more an inkling of her normal consciousness returned. She resented it.
“What for?” she said.
“I thought you might have had enough,” he said.
A slight soberness came over her, an irritation at being frustrated of her illusion.
“Why?” she said.
“We’ve been here since nine,” he said.
That was no answer, no reason. It conveyed nothing to her. She sat detached from him. Across the room Sam Adams glanced at her. She sat there exposed for him.
“You don’t want to be too free with Sam Adams,” said Whiston cautiously, suffering. “You know what he is.”
“How, free?” she asked.
“Why—you don’t want to have too much to do with him.”