me all about it--tell me exactly how she
struck you. I'm so glad it turns out that you know her."

"'Know' is rather exaggerated: we used to pass each other on the
stairs."

Madame de Chantelle and Owen appeared together as he spoke, and Anna,
gathering up her wraps, said: "You'll tell me about that, then. Try and
remember everything you can."

As he tramped through the woods at his young host's side, Darrow felt
the partial relief from thought produced by exercise and the obligation
to talk. Little as he cared for shooting, he had the habit of
concentration which makes it natural for a man to throw himself wholly
into whatever business he has in hand, and there were moments of the
afternoon when a sudden whirr in the undergrowth, a vivider gleam
against the hazy browns and greys of the woods, was enough to fill the
foreground of his attention. But all the while, behind these voluntarily
emphasized sensations, his secret consciousness continued to revolve on
a loud wheel of thought. For a time it seemed to be sweeping him through
deep gulfs of darkness. His sensations were too swift and swarming to be
disentangled. He had an almost physical sense of struggling for air,
of battling helplessly with material obstructions, as though the russet
covert through which he trudged were the heart of a maleficent jungle...

Snatches of his companion's talk drifted to him intermittently through
the confusion of his thoughts. He caught eager self-revealing phrases,
and understood that Owen was saying things about himself, perhaps
hinting indirectly at the hopes for which Darrow had been prepared by
Anna's confidences. He had already become aware that the lad liked
him, and had meant to take the first opportunity of showing that he
reciprocated the feeling. But the effort of fixing his attention on
Owen's words was so great that it left no power for more than the
briefest and most inexpressive replies.

Young Leath, it appeared, felt that he had reached a turning-point in
his career, a height from which he could impartially survey his past
progress and projected endeavour. At one time he had had musical and
literary yearnings, visions of desultory artistic indulgence; but these
had of late been superseded by the resolute determination to plunge into
practical life.

"I don't want, you see," Darrow heard him explaining, "to drift into
what my grandmother, poor dear, is trying to make of me: an adjunct of
Givre. I don't want--ha