It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. “I do mean that,” she declared. “I will be off,” she declared. She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it. .
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