Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ‘What is it that you told him?’ ‘Nothing, miss, I swear. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine.
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