looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh, or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted by what he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or of what was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration upon something entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness of her attitude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulse to break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsical Cassandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yet so notable that he could never do without her good opinion.
She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train of thought was ended, she became aware of his presence.
“Have you finished your letter?” she asked. He thought he heard faint amusement in her tone, but not a trace of jealousy.
“No, I'm not going to write any more to-night,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for it for some reason. I can’t say what I want to say.”
“Cassandra won’t know if it’s well written or badly written,” Katharine remarked.
“I’m not so sure about that. I should say she has a good deal of literary feeling.”
“Perhaps,” said Katharine indifferently. “You’ve been neglecting my education lately, by the way. I wish you'd read something. Let me choose a book.” So speaking, she went across to his bookshelves and began looking in a desultory way among his books. Anything, she thought, was better than bickering or the strange silence which drove home to her the distance between them. As she pulled one book forward and then another she thought ironically of her own certainty not an hour ago; how it had vanished in a moment, how she was
