Richard called them into the front compartment, and the three worked together at the big retort the rest of the morning. It was a strange hour and a half. She seemed to be two distinct persons—no, three. One was hating Basil and Helen—a being that seemed to concentrate all that is venomous and malignant. One was watching with interest and excitement the awful processes by which calm liquids poured together suddenly became violent, colorless liquids a marvelous radiance of exquisite color, heat became infinite cold and cold became heat that consumed hard metals as if they were bits of fluff. The third personality within her was aloof and calm, and watched her other two and wondered at them.
At dinner time she and Richard walked to the house together, Basil stopping at the apartment to tidy himself, as usual. "Well, how do you think they are getting on?" she asked carelessly.
"I can't tell," replied Richard, "till I've got several other reactions."
"Helen and Basil, I mean."
"How should I know? All right, I suppose."
"Didn't you tell me, a week or so ago, you thought it was a match?"
"Of course it's a match," said he, as if there weren't a doubt about it.
She quivered at this pressure upon the thorn that was pricking and festering. "Why are you so positive?" she asked.
"You know as much as I do. He goes out to meet her every morning, doesn't he?"
Every morning! To smoke! In a series of internal explosions whose flames scorched her soul she traced the progress of that smoking habit of his. With an outer calmness that amazed her she pursued her inquiries. "Are they—affectionate when they're alone?" she asked.