She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. His name was Peter. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. "But it wants something here. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference. " She paused.
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