“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared.
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