But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. “Call me Cathy, John. His food lay untouched about his plate. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. Oh, you must believe me. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. That is why I called myself Anna. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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