The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. Beneath the hood it was evident that her rebellious hair was bound up with red silk, and fastened by some device in her ears (unless she had them pierced, which was too dreadful a thing to suppose!) were long brass filigree earrings. They either ran to see or ran for shelter. It was no marriage at all. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person. “It isn’t quite that we’re toys. "Oho!" he said. Promise me one thing before I leave you. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour.
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