But for all these soothing reflections, there was an undercurrent of feeling which caused his steps to falter on his way to Pan. He turned into Portsmouth Square and took a seat on one of the benches facing the fountain erected in memory of Robert Louis Stevenson. Why had Pan failed to answer the note he had written telling her of the assignment which would keep him out of town for a couple of months and giving her his address? Would Robert Louis Stevenson have known why? Yes—and so did Mark Carson. But though Robert Louis Stevenson would have boldly answered himself the question, Mark Carson thrust it aside, arose, and pressed up the hill.
“I knew they would not blame you, Pan!”
“Yes.”
“And there was no word of you, dear. I was careful about that, not only for your sake, but for mine.”
Silence.
“It is mere superstition anyway. These things have got to be exposed and done away with.”
Still silence.
Mark Carson felt strangely chilled. Pan was not herself tonight. She did not even look herself. He had been accustomed to seeing her in American dress. Tonight she wore the Chinese costume. But for her clear-cut features she might have been a Chinese girl. He shivered.
“Pan,” he asked, “why do you wear that dress?”
Within her sleeves Pan’s small hands struggled together; but her face and voice were calm.