But did the horrible plausibility of what he had said actually cover the
truth? Did she owe that first golden hour with Rodney, his passionate
thrilling avowal of his life's philosophy, to nothing deeper in herself
than her unconscious power of rousing in him an equally unconscious,
primitive sex desire? Was the fine mutuality of understanding she had so
proudly boasted to her mother clear illusion? Now that the short circuit
had been established, would the lights never burn in the upper stories
of their house again? Turned about conversely the question read like
this: Was the thing that had, in Randolph himself, aroused his vivid
interest in the subject--well, nothing more than the daring cut of her
gown, the gleam of her jewels, the whiteness of her skin ...?

Those questions were waiting for her to come back to earth; and they
wouldn't get tired and go away. But for the present the knowledge that
they were there only made the aeroplane ride the more exhilarating.

She was called to the telephone just as she was on the point of
starting reluctantly for home, and found Rodney on the wire. He told her
that he had got hold of the thing he was looking for, but that there
were still hours of work ahead of him while he was fortifying himself
with necessary authorities. He wouldn't come home to-night at all, he
said. When his work was finished, he'd go to the club and have a Turkish
bath and all the sleep he had time for. When he got through in court
to-morrow afternoon, he'd come home.

It was all perfectly reasonable--it was to her finely tuned ear just a
shade too reasonable. It had been thought out as an excuse. Because it
wasn't for the Turkish bath nor the extra hour's sleep that he was
staying away from home. It was herself he was staying away from. He