She had thought he was
describing Savina for her benefit! The truth was that he had been
possessed by a tyrannical necessity to talk about Savina Grove, to hear
the sound of her praise if it were only on his own voice. It assisted
his memory, created, like the faintly heard echo of a thrilling voice,
a similitude not without its power to stir him. The secret realms of
thought, of fancy and remembrance, he felt, were his to linger in, to
indulge, as he chose. Lee had a doubt of the advisability of this; but
his question was disposed of by the realization that he had nothing to
say; his mind turned back and back to Savina.
He wondered when, or, rather, by what means, he should hear from her
again; perhaps--although it required no reply--in response to the
letter he had written to the Groves acknowledging their kindness and
thanking them for it. To Lee, William Loyd Grove was more immaterial
than a final shred of mist lifting from the sunken road across the golf
course; even his appreciation of the other's good qualities had
vanished, leaving nothing at all. He was confused by the ease with
which the real, the solid, became the nebulous and unreal, as though
the only standard of values, of weights and measures, lay absurdly in
his own inconsequential attitude.
* * * * *
The Randons had no formal meal on Sunday night; but there were
sandwiches, a bowl of salad, coffee, and what else were referred to
generally as drinks; and a number of people never failed to appear.
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