She shut the door and sank to the bare boards beside it. She took off her hat, and threw it, like a quoit, on to the bed. She laughed at that, and frowned, hugging her knees, staring into the gloom, swaying very slightly to and fro. Her meditations grew to a point that was a single name, and she uttered it on a growing note. "Alexander, Alexander, if you knew how tired I am----" The rasp of her boots on the boards was like her mind made audible. "If you think I'm going to make excuses----" she whispered fiercely, and stood defiant. Her cheeks were hot with old memories, and new thoughts rushing to the future. She shook her head impatiently. "Be quiet!" she said. "Be quiet!" But she talked to herself without ceasing, while she undressed. "Life's very lonely. I haven't lighted the gas. It doesn't matter. I don't want to see my ugly little face. No, I won't be humble. And it isn't ugly. I like it. I won't be humble, and I won't be bound. No fetters--but--I should like to be loved." She brushed her hair and plaited it. She was uncertain whether to smile or frown, but she nodded in acquiescence. "Jack's right. What a nuisance! Alexander, if you're not careful I shall hate you soon. No, I won't. You're apart--apart. My friend. But I'm rather hungry. If you had given me honest food, food of a friend--but you didn't after the first bite--and you won't. You can't blame me if I take delicacies, things which are not very good for me, but nice! Are you laughing at me? I don't care a bit, but I seem excited. I'd better think things out." Wrapt in her eider-down, she sat on the window-sill and watched the lights, but she did not think. Her mind refused the effort. It gave her pictures. She saw herself standing before the fire, with that empty, aching place in her breast; she saw the opening of the office door and the entrance of a man, dark, like Alexander, but with no other likeness, unless it were the power to make her whole, for her suffering had vanished under his long gaze. "But that was only because I was interested," she said sensibly. He had been interested, too, and more than that. The expression on his face was new to her. She had come to believe that admiration was her right; mingled with adoration, she had taken it from her father; Uncle George had mixed it with his annoyance; Neville had given it frankly; and Simon Smith, in the guise of petulant pleasure; but in this stranger it was overwhelmed by something for which she had no name. Surprise, baffled by courtesy, baffling his own unwillingness, had looked from his eyes and behind that there had been eagerness restrained. It was for her. She knew it surely, and the knowledge brought again that bubbling to her throat. This time she laughed, stretching out her hands. She felt like one caressed, secure, yet free, with power to capture and skill to elude captivity.