It must be somewhere hereabouts. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. “Call it warning, if you like. She began to want to lay her head down on his chest but absolutely denied herself. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation.
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