"Where in the world did you find all those violets—loose, the way I love them?" She did not give him time to answer. "My car is at the end of the alley. Where shall we go? I'm going to give you a half-hour.... I suppose it was written."
"That I should find you? Yes."
"I like the way you say that." Had the porter betrayed her? And yet the porter could not have betrayed anything beyond the fact that she, not Berta, had given him that box. Some unforeseen stroke of luck; certainly not that feather. He was no brother to the Cumæan Sibyl. Still, he had found her. She was tremendously curious to learn how. On the other hand, she was determined to ask him no questions and, as adroitly as she could, evade his. If he persisted, she would cut the meeting short. Some day—if she ever saw him again—she would tell him the story. She was too weary to-night. She was at once happy and miserable; happy because it was as though his finding her had been written, miserable because the sordid dénouement might break at any moment. To save Berta, not for Berta's sake, but for the mother's.
She knew that she was beautiful, that she possessed extraordinary talent in attracting men, though she had never used it. She knew what power lay in expression, in vocal music. She might have made this man love her. For if he had not been drawn to her through some mysterious forces, why had he sought her? Those flowers! There were gall and wormwood in this cup, but she drank it with a smile. Romance, and she must let it go by!
What had he learned within these four short hours? That she was not The Yellow Typhoon, certainly. Had there been a cable from that man Morgan, after his solemn promise? The gray wig and the goggles....
"What did you say?"
"That we had better be moving. You take me wherever you think best."
"Give me your arm. It will be slippery in the alley. There's an umbrella in the corner by the door. Take it."
Outside, he put up the umbrella; and as she took his arm she knocked against something heavy and hard in his pocket.