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"
Yes
,
"
said
Axia
,
coming
in
,
"
and
Amory
.
I
like
Amory
.
"
She
sat
down
beside
him
and
laid
her
yellow
head
on
his
shoulder
.
"
I
'll
pour
,
"
said
Sloane
;
"
you
use
siphon
,
Phoebe
.
"
They
filled
the
tray
with
glasses
.
"
Ready
,
here
she
goes
!
"
Amory
hesitated
,
glass
in
hand
.
There
was
a
minute
while
temptation
crept
over
him
like
a
warm
wind
,
and
his
imagination
turned
to
fire
,
and
he
took
the
glass
from
Phoebe
's
hand
.
That
was
all
;
for
at
the
second
that
his
decision
came
,
he
looked
up
and
saw
,
ten
yards
from
him
,
the
man
who
had
been
in
the
cafe
,
and
with
his
jump
of
astonishment
the
glass
fell
from
his
uplifted
hand
.
There
the
man
half
sat
,
half
leaned
against
a
pile
of
pillows
on
the
corner
divan
.
His
face
was
cast
in
the
same
yellow
wax
as
in
the
cafe
,
neither
the
dull
,
pasty
color
of
a
dead
man
--
rather
a
sort
of
virile
pallor
--
nor
unhealthy
,
you
'd
have
called
it
;
but
like
a
strong
man
who
'd
worked
in
a
mine
or
done
night
shifts
in
a
damp
climate
.
Amory
looked
him
over
carefully
and
later
he
could
have
drawn
him
after
a
fashion
,
down
to
the
merest
details
.
His
mouth
was
the
kind
that
is
called
frank
,
and
he
had
steady
gray
eyes
that
moved
slowly
from
one
to
the
other
of
their
group
,
with
just
the
shade
of
a
questioning
expression
.
Amory
noticed
his
hands
;
they
were
n't
fine
at
all
,
but
they
had
versatility
and
a
tenuous
strength
...
they
were
nervous
hands
that
sat
lightly
along
the
cushions
and
moved
constantly
with
little
jerky
openings
and
closings
.
Then
,
suddenly
,
Amory
perceived
the
feet
,
and
with
a
rush
of
blood
to
the
head
he
realized
he
was
afraid
.
The
feet
were
all
wrong
...
with
a
sort
of
wrongness
that
he
felt
rather
than
knew
...
It
was
like
weakness
in
a
good
woman
,
or
blood
on
satin
;
one
of
those
terrible
incongruities
that
shake
little
things
in
the
back
of
the
brain
.
He
wore
no
shoes
,
but
,
instead
,
a
sort
of
half
moccasin
,
pointed
,
though
,
like
the
shoes
they
wore
in
the
fourteenth
century
,
and
with
the
little
ends
curling
up
.
They
were
a
darkish
brown
and
his
toes
seemed
to
fill
them
to
the
end
...
They
were
unutterably
terrible
...
He
must
have
said
something
,
or
looked
something
,
for
Axia
's
voice
came
out
of
the
void
with
a
strange
goodness
.
"
Well
,
look
at
Amory
!
Poor
old
Amory
's
sick
--
old
head
going
'
round
?
"
"
Look
at
that
man
!
"
cried
Amory
,
pointing
toward
the
corner
divan
.
