she could not bring himself to speak to rosalind about the woman in the alcove. he wanted to speak—to do away, once for all, with the strangeness and the spell she seemed to have cast about him, to speak of her casually as that woman i saw the other day at merwin’s; but he could not do it. it was as if he were afraid—or bashful. he had not felt like this since—not since he was in love—with rosalind! he looked at the thought and turned it over slowly. he was not in love with the woman—certainly he was not in love with her! he would not know her again if he met her on the street.... would he not! suddenly he felt that he had known her always—longer than he had known rosalind—longer than he had been alive! he found himself wondering about the world—how it was the world got into existence—what were men doing in it—and women—and his mind travelled out into space—great stars swung away mistily—what did it mean—all his world and stars?... perhaps if he saw her again, just a few minutes, he would feel like himself again.... it was worth trying—and how he wanted—to—see her! well, what of that? there was nothing wrong in being curious about a woman like that. if she had some uncanny power over him he might as well find it out—fight it!
he was respectable—he was a married man.... and what had rosalind to do with it? perhaps it was rosalind. he should never quiet down till he knew. there was something in his blood. the next time he was passing merwin’s he would go in....
he passed merwin’s that afternoon—and went in. but she was not there. he sat a little while in the quiet of the place, looking across to the alcove where the woman had been. there was no one in it and the curtains were drawn back. each time a stir came from the swinging doors or a dress rustled beside him he half turned and held his breath till it passed and took its place at one of the little tables or in an alcove. but the third alcove on the right remained empty. no quiet figure moved with soft grace and seated itself there... no one but eldridge saw the figure—the gentle, bending line of the neck, the little droop of the face.... if only she would lift it or turn to him a minute.... and then the still, clear emptiness of the place swept between; the green curtains framed it, as if it were a picture, a little antechamber leading somewhere....
eldridge shook himself and took his hat and went out. the doors swung silently behind him—he would never go in there again! he was a fool—a soft fool! then he almost stopped in the crowd of the street.... and he knew suddenly that he would go back. he would go—again and again—he could not help himself. but he was not in love—he had been in love—with rosalind—and it was not like this.... a policeman thrust out an arm and stopped him, and he waited for the traffic to stream past.... he was not in love—only curious about the woman; it teased him not to know who she was... and why he had been so sure that she was rosalind. if he could see her again—just a minute—long enough to make sure, he would not care if he never saw her again. he was loyal, of course, to rosalind, more loyal than he had ever been. it seemed curious how the woman had made him see rosalind—all the plainness of her filled with something strange and sweet—like moonlight or a quiet place.
