Wasn't dun-colour, after all, preferable to the trivial kaleidoscope of shifting tints which was all that the future, apart from Franklin, seemed to offer her?
Might not dun-colour, even, illuminated by joy, turn to gold, like highway dust when the sun shines upon it?
Althea wondered, leaning back in her chair and gazing before her; she wondered deeply.
If only Franklin would come in now with the right look.

If only he would come in with the right word, or, if not with the word, with an even more compelling silence! Compulsion was needed, and could Franklin compel?
Could he make her fall in love with him?
So she wondered, sitting alone in the Paris hotel, the open letter in her hand..