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"
No
.
"
She
smiled
.
"
Go
ahead
,
say
it
—
whatever
it
is
.
"
"
Later
,
"
said
Mulligan
.
It
was
Mulligan
and
Akston
who
served
dinner
,
with
Quentin
Daniels
to
help
them
.
They
served
it
on
small
silver
trays
,
to
be
placed
on
the
arms
of
the
chairs
—
and
they
all
sat
about
the
room
,
with
the
fire
of
the
sky
fading
in
the
windows
and
sparks
of
electric
light
glittering
in
the
wine
glasses
.
There
was
an
air
of
luxury
about
the
room
,
but
it
was
the
luxury
of
expert
simplicity
;
she
noted
the
costly
furniture
,
carefully
chosen
for
comfort
,
bought
somewhere
at
a
time
when
luxury
had
still
been
an
art
.
There
were
no
superfluous
objects
,
but
she
noticed
a
small
canvas
by
a
great
master
of
the
Renaissance
,
worth
a
fortune
,
she
noticed
an
Oriental
rug
of
a
texture
and
color
that
belonged
under
glass
in
a
museum
.
This
was
Mulligan
’
s
concept
of
wealth
,
she
thought
—
the
wealth
of
selection
,
not
of
accumulation
.
Quentin
Daniels
sat
on
the
floor
,
with
his
tray
on
his
lap
;
he
seemed
completely
at
home
,
and
he
glanced
up
at
her
once
in
a
while
,
grinning
like
an
impudent
kid
brother
who
had
beaten
her
to
a
secret
she
had
not
discovered
.
He
had
preceded
her
into
the
valley
by
some
ten
minutes
,
she
thought
,
but
he
was
one
of
them
,
while
she
was
still
a
stranger
.
Galt
sat
aside
,
beyond
the
circle
of
lamplight
,
on
the
arm
of
Dr
.
Akston
’
s
chair
.
He
had
not
said
a
word
,
he
had
stepped
back
and
turned
her
over
to
the
others
,
and
he
sat
watching
it
as
a
spectacle
in
which
he
had
no
further
part
to
play
.
But
her
eyes
kept
coming
back
to
him
,
drawn
by
the
certainty
that
the
spectacle
was
of
his
choice
and
staging
,
that
he
had
set
it
in
motion
long
ago
,
and
that
all
the
others
knew
it
as
she
knew
it
.
She
noticed
another
person
who
was
intensely
aware
of
Galt
’
s
presence
:
Hugh
Akston
glanced
up
at
him
once
in
a
while
,
involuntarily
,
almost
surreptitiously
,
as
if
struggling
not
to
confess
the
loneliness
of
a
long
separation
.
Akston
did
not
speak
to
him
,
as
if
taking
his
presence
for
granted
.
But
once
,
when
Galt
bent
forward
and
a
strand
of
hair
fell
down
across
his
face
,
Akston
reached
over
and
brushed
it
back
,
his
hand
lingering
for
an
imperceptible
instant
on
his
pupil
’
s
forehead
:
it
was
the
only
break
of
emotion
he
permitted
himself
,
the
only
greeting
;
it
was
the
gesture
of
a
father
.
She
found
herself
talking
to
the
men
around
her
,
relaxing
in
lighthearted
comfort
.
No
,
she
thought
,
what
she
felt
was
not
strain
,
it
was
a
dim
astonishment
at
the
strain
which
she
should
,
but
did
not
,
feel
;
the
abnormality
of
it
was
that
it
seemed
so
normal
and
simple
.
She
was
barely
aware
of
her
questions
,
as
she
spoke
to
one
man
after
another
,
but
their
answers
were
printing
a
record
in
her
mind
,
moving
sentence
by
sentence
to
a
goal
.
