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It
was
just
when
she
proclaimed
herself
most
awfully
modern
that
she
struck
him
as
most
helplessly
backward
;
yet
the
moment
after
,
without
any
bravado
,
or
apparent
desire
to
assume
an
attitude
,
she
would
propound
some
social
axiom
which
could
have
been
gathered
only
in
the
bitter
soil
of
experience
.
All
these
things
came
back
to
him
as
he
sat
beside
her
in
the
theatre
and
watched
her
ingenuous
absorption
.
It
was
on
“
the
story
”
that
her
mind
was
fixed
,
and
in
life
also
,
he
suspected
,
it
would
always
be
“
the
story
”
,
rather
than
its
remoter
imaginative
issues
,
that
would
hold
her
.
He
did
not
believe
there
were
ever
any
echoes
in
her
soul
.
.
.
There
was
no
question
,
however
,
that
what
she
felt
was
felt
with
intensity
:
to
the
actual
,
the
immediate
,
she
spread
vibrating
strings
.
When
the
play
was
over
,
and
they
came
out
once
more
into
the
sunlight
,
Darrow
looked
down
at
her
with
a
smile
.
“
Well
?
”
he
asked
.
She
made
no
answer
.
Her
dark
gaze
seemed
to
rest
on
him
without
seeing
him
.
Her
cheeks
and
lips
were
pale
,
and
the
loose
hair
under
her
hat
-
brim
clung
to
her
forehead
in
damp
rings
.
She
looked
like
a
young
priestess
still
dazed
by
the
fumes
of
the
cavern
.
“
You
poor
child
—
it
’
s
been
almost
too
much
for
you
!
”
She
shook
her
head
with
a
vague
smile
.
“
Come
,
”
he
went
on
,
putting
his
hand
on
her
arm
,
“
let
’
s
jump
into
a
taxi
and
get
some
air
and
sunshine
.
Look
,
there
are
hours
of
daylight
left
;
and
see
what
a
night
it
’
s
going
to
be
!
”
He
pointed
over
their
heads
,
to
where
a
white
moon
hung
in
the
misty
blue
above
the
roofs
of
the
rue
de
Rivoli
.
