from striped hoods and fleshy throats,
his ardor for botany waned, and a more complex feeling replaced it. She
fell silent. The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections. In
defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved hand and touched one.
The sight of the rubies upon her finger affected him so disagreeably
that he started and turned away. But next moment he controlled himself;
he looked at her taking in one strange shape after another with the
contemplative, considering gaze of a person who sees not exactly what is
before him, but gropes in regions that lie beyond it. The far-away
look entirely lacked self-consciousness. Denham doubted whether she
remembered his presence. He could recall himself, of course, by a word
or a movement--but why? She was happier thus. She needed nothing that
he could give her. And for him, too, perhaps, it was best to keep aloof,
only to know that she existed, to preserve what he already had--perfect,
remote, and unbroken. Further, her still look, standing among the
orchids in that hot atmosphere, strangely illustrated some scene that
he had imagined in his room at home. The sight, mingling with his
recollection, kept him silent when the door was shut and they were
walking on again.

But though she did not speak, Katharine had an uneasy sense that silence
on her part was selfishness. It was selfish of her to continue, as she
wished to do, a discussion of subjects not remotely connected with any
human beings. She roused herself to consider their exact position upon
the turbulent map of the emotions. Oh yes--it was a question whether
Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting
late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for
dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought
to be holding something in her hands. But they were empty. She held them
out with an exclamation.

"I've left my bag somewhere--where?" The gardens had no points of the
compass, so far as she was concerned. She had been walking for the most
part on grass--that was all she knew. Even the road to the Orchid House
had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid
House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced
their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think
about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it
contain?

"A purse--a ticket--some letters, papers," Katharine