She drew on her gloves and buttoned them slowly, still smiling at me.
"I might never even have seen your story," she went on, quietly, "if
my maid had not brought it to me. I don't read _The Woman's Friend_."
There was a hint of the old superciliousness in her tone and about her
upper lip as she spoke. "On the whole, I don't think it did me any
harm. The opinion of strangers is the least important thing in my
little arctic circle. So, forget me. Good night--and good-by."
I kept her hand in mine for a moment. "Good-by," I said. "Peace be
with you."
She drew her veil down over her face, and moved to the door. I
followed and opened it for her. On the threshold she stopped and
hesitated, looking straight at me; and in that instant I knew as
surely as I ever knew anything in my life that now at last her guard
was down--that from the fastness of her soul something horrible had
escaped and was leaping toward me. She cast a quick glance up and down
the outer hall. It was dim and empty. I hardly dared to breathe.
"There is one thing more," she said, and her words rushed out with an
odd effect of breathlessness under the continued calm of her manner.
"The only really human emotion I've felt in a long time is--an
upheaval of curiosity."