“Wonderful,” I said.
We went out of the room.
I said: “Listen, Edwarda—have you quite forgotten me?”
“I can't understand you,” she answered in surprise. “You saw all I had been doing—how could I come and see you at the same time?”
“No,” I agreed; “perhaps you couldn't.” I was sick and exhausted with want of sleep, my speech grew meaningless and uncontrolled; I had been miserable the whole day. “No, of course you could not come. But I was going to say ... in a word, something has changed; there is something wrong. Yes. But I cannot read in your face what it is. There is something very strange about your brow, Edwarda. Yes, I can see it now.”
“But I have not forgotten you,” she cried, blushing, and slipped her arm suddenly into mine.
“No? Well, perhaps you have not forgotten me. But if so, then I do not know what I am saying. One or the other.”
“You shall have an invitation to-morrow. You must dance with me. Oh, how we will dance!”
“Will you go a little way with me?” I asked.
“Now? No, I can't,” she answered. “The Doctor will be here presently. He's going to help me with something; there is a good deal still to be done. And you think the room will look all right as it is? But don't you think...?”