“Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. It feels like it. I did not reckon upon—him. She could not say a word, much less move. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. He's a hundred miles sou'-east of me. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night.
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