XVII
The necessary formalities of departure were speedily got through. The passing of the corridors, the gaining of the carriage, seemed to Loder to be marvellously simple proceedings. Then, as he sat by Eve's side and again felt the forward movement of the horses, he had leisure for the first time to wonder whether the time that had passed since last he occupied that position had actually been lived through.
Only that night he had unconsciously compared one incident in his life to a sketch in which the lights and shadows have been obliterated and lost. Now that picture rose before him, startlingly and incredibly intact. He saw the sunlit houses of Santasalare, backgrounded by the sunlit hills—saw them as plainly as when he himself had sketched them on his memory. Every detail of the scene remained the same, even to the central figure; only the eye and the hand of the artist had changed.
At this point Eve broke in upon his thoughts. Her first words were curiously coincidental.
“What did you think of Lillian Astrupp to-night?” she asked. “Wasn't her gown perfect?”
Loder lifted his head with an almost guilty start. Then he answered straight from his thoughts.
“I—I didn't notice it,” he said; “but her eyes reminded me of a cat's eyes—and she walks like a cat. I never seemed to see it—until to-night.”
Eve changed her position. “She was very artistic,” she said, tentatively. “Don't you think the gold gown was beautiful with her pale-colored hair?”
Loder felt surprised. He was convinced that Eve disliked the other and he was not sufficiently versed in women to understand her praise. “I thought—” he began. Then he wisely stopped. “I didn't see the gown,” he substituted.