Everybody looked askance at everybody else. The streets were full of colour. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished. So that it seemed to her the whole world had changed —the very light of it had changed. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. E.
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