He took the first step toward the stairs, and met the restraining hand of McClintock. “Pellissier,” she repeated thoughtfully. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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