where Val and Eddie stood, two dripping figures, curiously out of place in the secure comfort of the small room.
“Is Teck here?” asked Val. He looked at her for a reply, but she stood singularly silent, a new, a different Jessica Pomeroy than he had known.
There was a subtle change in her, and as he looked again he saw that the change was not too subtle; he could sense it easily. The atmosphere was different, somehow; her attitude toward him was different. He could see a peculiar tenseness about her demeanor, about the corners of her eyes, for instance, out of which she regarded him quietly.
“Why do you ask?” she inquired calmly.
It was now his turn to stare at her, in inquiry. “Why do I ask?” he echoed.
“Yes—what is Mr. Teck to you?” she asked again, intoning monotonously, as though repeating a lesson that had been drilled into her by constant iteration.
Val looked at her unbelievingly; was this the Jessica Pomeroy he knew? The Jessica Pomeroy who had made an appointment to explore the old house with him this night? She was different, and he could scarcely say how, though her attitude was plain enough now—it was no longer friendly; it was almost openly hostile. But it was not that he was thinking of—external differences were easy to detect; but something inside of her had gone wrong, he could see that; some fuse burned out; some fine wire of determination severed.
“What’s wrong, Jessica?” he asked, stepping up a bit closer to her impulsively. “You’re so changed from⸺”
She stepped away from him, two spots of color flaring in her pale cheeks.
