ancholy; the wings of her spirit had begun to unfold from their limpness and flutter a little.
Now she saw why this had been. They could no longer play at being old friends. Crayven had abruptly changed the key of the tune; and this key once struck, one could never go back to the other. What then? … The first effect of all this was a feeling of loneliness, of intense, more bitter melancholy, which demanded relief. She recognised that she was deeply restless, and for the first time in her life inclined to be really reckless.
Something had changed in her, as she had said to Basil, long ago, it seemed. Something was changed between Basil and herself. She no longer felt that they belonged absolutely to one another. The bond that was too strong to break, that had been too strait to bear, was in some way loosened. She no longer felt accountable to Basil for herself.
She played bridge that night as usual—played absently and lost steadily—and when Crayven, walking with her to the hotel, suggested a walk for the next day, she said she had some work to do. He said calmly, "Oh, I'm sorry," and made no effort to persuade her. They parted, coolly.
Early in the morning he went off for a mountain climb, starting with two other men in his hotel. They refused guides. In the afternoon,
