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"I could bring the patterns down here. Or, if you had time, you could
come up to my room and see them. But I'm afraid you couldn't tell much
from that, because they're all taken apart, you see, and they're just in
paper cambric and not the right colors."
What the man was struggling for--it had been his sole reason for
detaining her in the first place--was some sort of opening that would
make it seem natural to tell her he hoped her Christmas Day had not been
too intolerably unhappy; to shake hands with her and wish her
luck--assure her in one way or another, that she had in him a friend she
could bring her troubles to--any sort of troubles. He'd made up his mind
to do this when the Christmas rehearsal should he over, as long ago as
the night of their walk down the avenue. This resolution had been
reinforced by the look he had caught in her face when she came up to
rehearsal this afternoon--a rather misty, luminous, exalted look,--a
little lack of definition about her eyelids suggesting there had been
tears there.


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