Pig Manager, or it may be by,
reason of the thoughts her conversation suggested, remembering the girl
Helen Wotton, who had spoken to him so oddly at the Wind-Vane Keeper's
gathering. The impression she had made was a deep one, albeit the
incessant surprise of novel circumstances had kept him from brooding
upon it for a space. But now her memory was coming to its own. He
wondered what she had meant by those broken half-forgotten sentences;
the picture of her eyes and the earnest passion of her face became more
vivid as his mechanical interests faded. Her beauty came compellingly
between him and certain immediate temptations of ignoble passion. But he
did not see her again until three full days were past.

CHAPTER XVIII. GRAHAM REMEMBERS

She came upon him at last in a little gallery that ran from the Wind
Vane Offices toward his state apartments. The gallery was long and
narrow, with a series of recesses, each with an arched fenestration that
looked upon a court of palms. He came upon her suddenly in one of
these recesses. She was seated. She turned her head at the sound of
his footsteps and started at the sight of him. Every touch of colour
vanished from her face. She rose instantly, made a step toward him as
if to address him, and hesitated. He stopped and stood still, expectant.
Then he perceived that a nervous tumult silenced her, perceived too,
that she must have sought speech with him to be waiting for him in this
place.

He felt a regal impulse to assist her. "I have wanted to see you," he
said. "A few days ago you wanted to tell me something--you wanted to
tell me of the people. What was it you had to tell me?"

She looked at him with troubled eyes.

"You said the people were unhappy?"

For a moment she was silent still.

"It must have seemed strange to you," she said abruptly.

"It did. And yet--"

"It was an impulse."

"Well?"

"That is all."

She looked at him with a face of hesitation. She spoke with an effort.
"You forget," she said, drawing a deep breath.

"What?"

"The people--"

"Do you mean--?"

"You forget the people."

He looked interrogative.

"Yes. I know you are surprised. For you do not understand what you are.
You do not know the things that are happening."

"Well?"

"You do not understand."

"Not clearly, perhaps. But--tell me."

She turned to him with sudden resolution. "It is so hard to explain. I
have meant to, I have wanted to. And now--I cannot. I am not