He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. It could not be a legal marriage. ” She laughed.
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