'When did you begin to think of Lucy?'
Her thin fingers, crossed over her brow, as she rested her arm on the back of the chair, hid from him the eagerness, the passion, of her curiosity.
But he scented danger. He prepared himself to walk warily.
'It was after Nemi—quite suddenly. I can't explain it. How can one ever explain those things?'
'What makes you want to marry her? What possible congruity is there between her and you?'
He laughed uneasily.
'What's the good of asking those things? One's feeling itself is the answer.'
'But I'm the spectator—the friend.'—The word came out slowly, with a strange emphasis. 'I want to know what Lucy's chances are.'
'Chances of what?'
'Chances of happiness.'