come to mean to him by then—in his disappointment and anger over her—only the successive mad acts of a headstrong, foolish child. He was not quite certain what they meant to him tonight. But he could find no blanket explanation to cover them now, and he asked himself what he had seen in her which made it so.
He had been prepared for her caprice, for her self-will. He had not been at all prepared for that something else, which these pictures seemed to desecrate. Tonight they angered him because they looked so like her and yet had failed to catch that something which he himself had seen. He hastily put away the book, as he heard a knock upon his outer door and a woman's voice inquiring for him in his reception room.
He listened, heard no other voice except
