notice what is coming; and she had a strange, discomforting sense that
these minutes were preordained--that Martin and Cartoner and herself
were mere puppets in the hands of Fate, and must say and do that which
has been assigned to them in an unalterable scheme of succeeding events.

She watched the two men meet and shake hands, in the English fashion,
without raising their hats. She could see Cartoner's movements to
continue his way, and Martin's detaining hand slipped within the
Englishman's arm.

"What does it matter?" Martin was saying. "There is no one to see us
here, at this hour in the morning. We are quite safe. There is Wanda,
sitting on the seat, waiting for me. Come back with me."

And Wanda could divine the words easily enough from her brother's
attitude and gestures. It ought to have surprised her that Cartoner
yielded, for it was unlike him. He was so much stronger than Martin--so
determined, so unyielding. And yet she felt no surprise when he turned
and came towards her with Martin's hand still within his arm. She knew
that it was written that he must come; divined vaguely that he had
something to say to her which it was safer to say than to leave to be
silently understood and perhaps misunderstood. She gave an impatient
sigh. She had always ruled her father and brother and the Palace Bukaty,
and this sense of powerlessness was new to her.

While they approached, Martin continued to talk in his eager, laughing
way, and Cartoner smiled slowly as he listened.

"I saw you," he said to Wanda, as he took off his hat, "and went the
other way to avoid you."