She accepted his suggestion, but he could think of nothing further to say. "You're not exactly cheerful to-day," she said. "Anything wrong?" He made a vague gesture. "Bad news from home?" "Home?" He tried to make his tone flippant. "Is there any such place?" "Fine!" she said. "You're coming on, Walter. Your worst fault used to be your belief in such superstitions." It was her turn now to hide her seriousness behind the mask of flippancy. "Do you notice anything particular about the furniture in this room?" "It's fine old Empire." "Well, it doesn't matter whether it's _Empire_, or _Louis Seize_, or _Henri Quatre_, or _Chinois_. It isn't Gothic! That's the important point. Yes," she went on in answer to the question in his eyes, "I'm expecting the final papers any day. I'll take my maiden name. Beatrice Maynard." She threw back her head and blew out some rings of the fragrant smoke. "It took me a long time to learn this trick," she said, as if it were a very serious matter. "The man who kept the Morgue on _The Star_ taught me--in the old days." But Walter hardly heard her irrelevant words. He was thinking of the implications of her smash-up, and overlaid on these thoughts was the impression that her throat was very beautiful. He had never noticed it before. "Fine cigarettes, these," she commented, still watching the smoke rings to avoid meeting his eyes. But Walter did not reply. A sudden pity for her flooded him. How hopelessly lost they both were, splashing about aimlessly in the great muddle of life. They sat silent for many minutes, staring blankly at the dead past and the future which promised to be stillborn. It is strange how much we sometimes know of other people which has never been told. Mrs. Karner, although Walter had never taken her into his confidence, knew with amazing clearness the import of his barren romance. And he, in the same way, sensed what was wrong with her, felt the deadening tragedy which lay behind her mocking words. She--frightened by the feeling that in this poignant silence they were becoming dangerously intimate--brought their reveries to an abrupt end by jumping up. "We're a sorry couple, aren't we? We've messed things up frightfully, and we want to cry. It's much better business to laugh. Let's shake hands and cheer up." The wide sleeve of her morning gown fell back from her arm as she stretched out her hand to him. Her skin seemed inordinately, preposterously white to him as he stood up. But the thing which impressed him most was the intricate network of tiny blue veins on the inside by the elbow. "In France," he said, "I claim French privileges." As she did not pull her hand away when he raised it to his lips, he kissed the blue veins inside her elbow. He did not realize what he was doing--what he had done--until he heard the sharp intake of her breath. The look on her face made the blood pound in his temples.