Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Something in his tone pinched her heart. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. I have seen you with Anna, and I have not known whether to be glad or sorry. ’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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