“Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. But,” and he faced them both with a still expressionless glance, “this is not the end!” Anna recovered her spirits with marvellous facility. He felt her observance and warmed to it. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. It was now a quarter past twelve. . . As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. She hated living like that. He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete.
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