But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on.
'It's a fine evening. And the moon'll be coming up.'
'I'll get my sweater,' she said quietly, and went out to the hall.
She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater—he, hat and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt had marched stiffly to that same closet—when Madame Watt came down the stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard.
She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing a sort of smile.
'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry.
Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a greeting, she broke in on him with this:—'I didn't know you were here. Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence fell, the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black, alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good one. But he didn't know how.
Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head.
During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, and the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they had a secret.
'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely.