And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word.
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