ich had caused her to close the discussion at precisely the
safe moment. He was a master of the art of closing interviews, and she
had placed the period at the end of the right sentence; it was where he
would have placed it himself. She had laughed!--and the novelty of being
laughed at was refreshing. He and Thatcher had laughed in secret at the
confusion of their common enemies in old times; but most men feared him,
and he had the reputation of being a mirthless person. He had rarely
discussed politics with women; he had an idea that a woman's politics,
when she had any, partook of the nature of her religion, and that it was
something quite emotional, tending toward hysteria. He experienced a
sense of guilt at the relief he found in Sylvia's laughter, remembering
that scarcely half an hour earlier he had been at pains to justify
himself before his wife for the very act which had struck this girl as
funny. He had met Mrs. Bassett's accusations with evasion and
dissimulation, and he had accomplished an escape that was not, in
retrospect, wholly creditable. He hated scenes and tiresome debates as
he hated people who cringed and sidled before him.

His manner of dealing with Thatcher had been born of a diabolical humor
which he rarely exercised, but which afforded him a delicious
satisfaction. It was the sort of revenge one reserved for a foe capable
of appreciating its humor and malignity. The answer of laughter was one
to which he was unused, and he was amazed to find that it had effected
an understanding of some vague and intangible kind between him and
Sylvia Garrison. She might not approve of him, he had no idea that she
did; but she had struck a chord whose vibrations pleased and tantalized.
She was provocative and, to a degree, mystifying, and the abrupt
termination of their talk seemed to leave the way open to other
interviews. He thought of many things he might have said to her at the
moment; but her period was not to be changed to comma or semicolon; she
was satisfied with the punctuation and had, so to speak, run away with
the pencil! She had tossed his political aims and strifes into the air
with a bewildering dismissal, and he stood like a child whose toy
balloon has slipped away, half-pleased at its flight, half-mourning its
loss.

She picked up some books she had left on a stand in the hall. He stood
with his hands in his pockets, watching her ascent, hearing the swish of
her skirts on the stairs: but she d