“You. I was wondering how long we’d have you with us.” “What an idea. You’ll probably sit with me in this room at precisely the same hour next year.” “The slight bitterness of your accent confirms my misgivings. I doubt if you’ll be in this house.” “What do you mean?” she asked, frowning. “Well, that you’ve been fumbling, so far—not even experimenting, like most women.” “I don’t like either word.” “Neither really should apply to you. You’re extremely clear-sighted about most things, but there’s a catch somewhere. I can’t get it. I’d like to, and I too am fumbling, just now. At all events that is the way you impress me, and I’ve a hazy idea that you’ll come out of the fog before long.” “Come out of the fog?” Gita stared at him under lowered brows and then jerked her head. “I forgot you were a maker of phrases.” “Only when I’m sweating at the typewriter. I assure you that was spontaneous—and seems to fit you.” “‘Out of the fog.’” Her voice sounded dazed. “Do you mean I don’t know where I am?” “Something like that. You’re a riddle to yourself, as you are to other people.” “That is not true! I know myself perfectly.” “Then you dwell in another dimension from the rest of us.” Gita colored angrily. “By that, I suppose, you mean I am even more conceited than the rest of you. Quite a feat!” He laughed good-naturedly. “Quite, indeed. And you’re not. But you’re very honest. Do you really believe you’ve explored yourself thoroughly—made a complete chart of all the subterranean streams, and peaks—sort of magnet for fogs? Now, do you?” Gita moved uneasily. “Yes, I do. I’ve had a very wide and varied experience of life that you know nothing about. No one has ever had an opportunity to gauge herself more exhaustively than I.” “Ah! I’m not surprised to hear you say that. . . . You suggest a play in four acts with a prologue and epilogue. . . . But I can’t make even a guess. Have you ever been in love?” he asked bluntly. Gita drew herself up haughtily. “That question was in excessively bad taste.” “We’ve abandoned taste with other old clichés.” But he took the edge from this announcement of an unassailable fact with a disarming smile. “And if you haven’t, you will, you know. You’re not in the least in love with Eustace, and you’ve got it coming—when the fog lifts.” He was angling, and had hoped for a minnow, but was by no means prepared for a whale. Gita turned white, then almost purple; her eyes shot red sparks and her mouth drew back until it made an ugly grimace. For a moment he thought she was going to strike him. A curious devastating force seemed to emanate from her and he turned hot all over, as if his skin had been seared. He was almost terrified but had the presence of mind to move forward; if his face were slapped his ignominy would not be too public at least.