THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"The hound!" Merton Densher brought out. He moved off, however, with a hot face, as soon as he had spoken, conscious again of an intention in his visitor's reserve. Dusk was now deeper, and after he had once more taken counsel of the dreariness without he turned to his companion. "Shall we have lights—a lamp or the candles?"
"Not for me."
"Nothing?"
"Not for me."
He waited at the window another moment; then he faced his friend with a thought. "He will have proposed to Miss Croy. That's what has happened."
Her reserve continued. "It's you who must judge."
"Well, I do judge. Mrs. Lowder will have done so too—only she, poor lady, wrong. Miss Croy's refusal of him will have struck him"—Densher continued to make it out—"as a phenomenon requiring a reason."
"And you've been clear to him as the reason?"
"Not too clear—since I'm sticking here, and since that has been a fact to make his descent upon Miss Theale relevant. But clear enough. He has believed," said Densher bravely, "that I may have been a reason at Lancaster Gate, and yet at the same time have been up to something in Venice."
Mrs. Stringham took her courage from his own. "Up to something? Up to what?"
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