But his hand was withheld by Thames. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. I suppose most of our daughters would marry organ-grinders if they had a chance—at that age. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. But you want one quality, without which all others are valueless.
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