SON OF THE WIND
Blanche had led him through, and now the odor of the place, dry and inclosed, revivified the past moment. He had a flying recollection of how she had looked to him, that clear first impression of personality, just how she had walked across the floor between the tables and the army of chairs. It seemed almost she must be crossing it now, one foot advanced with the temptation to slide, glancing at him with serious, sidelong turn of her head.
No one was crossing it. The tables had been pushed back against the wall. A glassy surface stretched uninterrupted, reflecting like a pool of water, but at the other side of it the sole figure, the scholar, was standing. He was fronting Carron, but did not appear to see him or hear him. He had the look of being adrift in the large place, stranded by the table, a limp body without volition. His gaze was fixed upon a white sugar bowl as though it contained the secret of the universe. Carron looked at him affectionately. This was his fellow conspirator who was responsible for to-day's triumph. He was more glad to see the scholar at this moment than any other person in the house. He wanted to shout out the good news from where he stood, to wring his hand with congratulations. "Hello," he said, "are you getting lost, Mr. Rader?"
The scholar raised his head with a nervous toss
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