Then, after Capes had been through her work and had gone on, it came to her that the fabric of this life of hers was doomed to almost immediate collapse; that in a little while these studies would cease, and perhaps she would never set eyes on him again. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. Martha said to me that it must come to the bibliothéque. “These are her rooms,” she said. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act.
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