it for a while he stood up and
wandered to the window.

Behind him he heard her pen scrape on.

"I don't want to worry them--I'm so certain they've got bothers of their
own." The faltering scratches ceased again. "I wish I weren't such an
idiot about writing: all the words get frightened and scurry away when
I try to catch them." He glanced back at her with a smile as she bent
above her task like a school-girl struggling with a "composition." Her
flushed cheek and frowning brow showed that her difficulty was genuine
and not an artless device to draw him to her side. She was really
powerless to put her thoughts in writing, and the inability seemed
characteristic of her quick impressionable mind, and of the incessant
come-and-go of her sensations. He thought of Anna Leath's letters, or
rather of the few he had received, years ago, from the girl who had been
Anna Summers. He saw the slender firm strokes of the pen, recalled the
clear structure of the phrases, and, by an abrupt association of ideas,
remembered that, at that very hour, just such a document might be
awaiting him at the hotel.

What if it were there, indeed, and had brought him a complete
explanation of her telegram? The revulsion of feeling produced by this
thought made him look at the girl with sudden impatience. She struck him
as positively stupid, and he wondered how he could have wasted half his
day with her, when all the while Mrs. Leath's letter might be lying on
his table. At that moment, if he could have chosen, he would have left
his companion on the spot; but he had her on his hands, and must accept
the consequences.

Some odd intuition seemed to make her conscious of his change of mood,
for she sprang from her seat, crumpling the letter in her hand.

"I'm too stupid; but I won't keep you any longer. I'll go back to the
hotel and write there."

Her colour deepened, and for the first time, as their eyes met, he
noticed a faint embarrassment in hers. Could it be that his nearness
was, after all, the cause of her confusion? The thought turned his vague
impatience with her into a definite resentment toward himself. There was
really no excuse for his having blundered into such an adventure. Why
had he not shipped the girl off to Joigny by the evening train, instead
of urging her to delay, and using Cerdine as a pretext? Paris was full
of people he knew, and his annoyance was increased by the thought that
some friend of Mrs. Leath's might see him