The way they sat down awhile in the sun was a sign of that; his dropping with her into the first pair of sequestered chairs they came across and waiting a little, after they were placed, as if now at last she might bring out, as between them, something more specific.

It made her but feel the more sharply how the specific, in almost any direction, was utterly forbidden her--how the use of it would be, for all the world, like undoing the leash of a dog eager to follow up a scent.

It would come out, the specific, where the dog would come out; would run to earth, somehow, the truth--for she was believing herself in relation to the truth!--at which she mustn't so much as indirectly point.

Such, at any rate, was the fashion in which her passionate prudence played over possibilities of danger, reading symptoms and betrayals into everything she looked at, and yet having to make it evident, while she recognised them, that she didn't wince.

There were moments between them, in their chairs, when he might have been watching her guard herself and trying to think of something new that would trip her up.