For Kirk had changed. After the first day she could not conceal it from
herself. That it was she who had changed did not present itself to her
as a possible explanation of the fact that she now felt out of touch
with her husband. All she knew was that they had been linked together
by bonds of sympathy, and were so no longer.
She found Kirk dull. She hated to admit it, but the truth forced itself
upon her. He had begun to bore her.
She collected her thoughts and answered his question.
"Basil Milbank? Oh, I should call him unique."
She felt a wild impulse to warn him, to explain the real significance
of this man whom he classed contemptuously with Clarence Grayling and
that absurd little Dana Ferris as somebody of no account. She wanted to
cry out to him that she was in danger and that only he could help her.
But she could not speak, and Kirk went on in the same tone of
half-tolerant contempt:
"Who is he?"
She controlled herself with an effort, and answered indifferently.
"Oh, Basil? Well, you might say he's everything. He plays polo, leads
cotillions, yachts, shoots, plays the piano wonderfully--everything.
People usually like him very much." She paused. "Women especially."
She had tried to put something into her tone which might serve to
awaken him, something which might prepare the way for what she wanted
to say--and what, if she did not say it now--when the mood was on her,
she could never say.
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