For a moment she had an inchoate perception of life going by like that wind outside, only not passing her, but bearing her with it. She knew that this thing could not be stopped. "Maybe I’d better go home," she thought. "I don’t want to get mixed up in anything queer. Maybe I’ll go." But that wasn’t genuine; retreat wasn’t in her soul. Her vague uneasiness increased; she began thinking of Eddie and his books, and those magnificent women. "But all of them," she thought, "just went for the man they wanted, I guess, and didn’t give a darn for anything else. Maybe that’s the best way." She dallied with the idea of reckless, overwhelming passion, but she could not wholly accept it. There was something humiliating in caring so much for a man. There was a quiet little knock at the door. Angelica’s hand flew to her heart; she didn’t stir. There was another knock, and still she didn’t answer. Then, fancying she heard a footstep departing, she was seized with an unreasonable panic, and flew across the dark room and stood close beside the door. "Who is it?" she asked. "It’s I," said the voice she had longed for and dreaded. "Well, what do _you_ want?" she asked, flippantly. "I thought you’d like to take a walk in the garden," he said. "Why? It’s too late!" she cried. "Can’t we have a little talk?" he asked, plaintively. "Can’t I come in?" She hesitated. "I guess--you’d better not. I’ll see you in the morning. It’s so late now." "I didn’t think you’d care about such things," he said. She saw that he was disappointed; that he found her tame, cowardly. She unlocked the door and flung it open. "But what on earth is there to talk about?" she asked, laughing nervously. And then and there and forever she lost her advantage over Vincent. For that moment she was triumphant, indulgently amused by his eagerness, mistress of the situation and of him, elated by the knowledge that she was beloved and desired; but no sooner had Vincent really entered than he dominated the situation. His big hand closed over hers. He bent over her and whispered in the darkness: "I couldn’t sleep till I’d seen you again!" "Well!" she said, with the same forced little laugh. "Here I am!" He seemed in the dark to tower above her; his bigness, the resonance of his deep voice, confused her. "I couldn’t sleep without seeing you," he said again. "I had to know that you were real. After you had gone, I thought I must have dreamed you. You were so lovely, so wonderful, you came upon me so suddenly! You _are_ real, aren’t you?" Again she gave a stupid laugh. "Tell me!" he said. "Are you the girl that I saw at the dinner-table--the houri in yellow that I saw in my mother’s room?" "Yes." "And only to think!" he said. "I’ve been looking for you all my life long, all over the world, and I find you here, under my own roof, when I come home! Were you waiting for me?" "I didn’t know there was any you," she said, simply.