All about, up and down the street, were remote sounds of retreating steps, coming steps, voices that cried out in low commands or questions, but they said nothing for her beyond the abundant drama of their passing. She moved in a richness and fullness of sensation, cloaked in sense, or the pleasure of setting her feet forward swiftly drowned all thought in momentary pools of physical being. Or, standing at the gate after the walk, having heard the click of the gate latch which always meant the end of a journey, the peculiar sound of the gate when it was closed from within the garden, a deep metal click, alto, unlike that of any other gate she knew, a token of possible finalities came into her thought and her bodily presence. Albert gathered the fields together and centered them, but in turn he centered himself into her body. The parallels of the street converged far down in the west at the line the set sun made with the hills. The cool of the night touched her face and a shiver passed over her body, less of cold than of emotion deeply established as she recognized some unity within herself which related to her friends, to Albert’s wish, to Conway’s gentleness and beauty, and a clear thought of Conway brought a smile to her lips. “This is my spirit, my soul. It’s here,” she said. “This unit. I can almost touch it with my words.” Dark had come now. The lights of the town were burning in order, one after the other up the street. She passed up the steps of the gallery slowly. THREE Catherine Lovell’s face was dim in Theodosia’s memory now that it was gone from the town. To her this was something to contemplate, this sure loss of a face when it had passed beyond the sight of the eye. The face would be recognized instantly anywhere upon the earth, in any crowd, but it could not be restored to a vivid image in waking thought. Theodosia pursued all vanishing faces with moments of wonder and amazement, for Jane Moore, out of sight, was but dimly seen although the flavor of her being, of her way, her smile, was keenly discerned. The same was true of Ruth although she came often to the parlor, and true of Conway, of Albert, of Frank, and she played a game of trying to hold the image minute by minute after the face had disappeared through a doorway, but only a dim vision together with an estimate or a general essence could be assured, although Albert’s look with its momentary pleading and rough assurance somehow entered her frame and consorted with some part of her own being, richly remembered in the joyous consenting of her members, but accompanying this ran always a tender thought of Conway and his beauty, who, if he were but vaguely visualized, was real and one with Albert in whatever favor her mind yielded of contemplation and tenderness.