"Wonderful," I said.
We went out of the room.
I said: "Listen, Edwarda--have you quite forgotten me?"
"I can't understand you," she answered in surprise. "You saw all I had
been doing--how could I come and see you at the same time?"
"No," I agreed; "perhaps you couldn't." I was sick and exhausted with
want of sleep, my speech grew meaningless and uncontrolled; I had been
miserable the whole day. "No, of course you could not come. But I was
going to say ... in a word, something has changed; there is something
wrong. Yes. But I cannot read in your face what it is. There is
something very strange about your brow, Edwarda. Yes, I can see it now."
"But I have not forgotten you," she cried, blushing, and slipped her arm
suddenly into mine.
"No? Well, perhaps you have not forgotten me. But if so, then I do not
know what I am saying. One or the other."
"You shall have an invitation to-morrow. You must dance with me. Oh, how
we will dance!"
"Will you go a little way with me?" I asked.
"Now? No, I can't," she answered. "The Doctor will be here presently.
He's going to help me with something; there is a good deal still to be
done. And you think the room will look all right as it is? But don't you
think...?"
A carriage stops outside.
"Is the Doctor driving to-day?" I ask.
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