by
looking at her hard enough. She had seen him do it . . . helped him do it,
for that matter!

And so Neale must have seen. Anybody could! And Neale was not raising a
hand, nor so much as lifting an eyebrow, just letting things take their
course.

_What could that mean except that he would welcome_ . . .

Oh Heavens! her pulse was hammering again. She sprang up and ran to the
mirror. Yes, the mirror showed a face that scared her; haggard and
pinched with a fierce desire.

There were not only lines now, there was a hollow in the cheek . . . or
was that a shadow? It made her look a thousand years old. Massage would
do that no good! And she had no faith in any of those "flesh-foods."
Perhaps she was underweight. The hideous strain and suspense of the last
weeks had told on her. Perhaps she would better omit those morning
exercises for a time, in this intense heat. Perhaps she would better
take cream with her oatmeal again. Or perhaps cream of wheat would be
better than oatmeal. How ghastly that made her look! But perhaps it was
only a shadow. She could not summon courage enough to move and see.
Finally she took up her hand-mirror, framed in creamy ivory, with a
carved jade bead hanging from it by a green silk cord. She went to the
window to get a better light on her face. She examined it, holding her
breath; and drew a long, long sigh of respite and relief. It _had_ been
only a shadow!

But what a fright it had given her! Her heart was quivering yet. What
unending vigilance it took to protect yourself from deep emotions. When
it wasn't one, it was another, that sprang on you unawares.

Another one _was_ there, ready to spring also, the suddenly conceived
possibility, like an idea thrust into her mind from the outside, that
there might be some active part she could play in what was going on in
this house. People did sometimes. If some chance for this offered . . .
you never could tell when . . . a word might be . . . perhaps something to
turn Marise from Neale long enough to . . .

She cast this idea off with shame for its crudeness. What vulgar raw
things would come into your head when you let your mind roam idly . . .
like cheap melodrama . . .

She would try the Vedanta deep-breathing exercises this time to quiet
herself; and after them, breathing in and out through one nostril, and
thinking of the Infinite, as the Yogi had told her.

She lay down flat on the bed for this, kicking off her quilted satin
_mule