The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks
with Edna's memory that night.
Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the
night was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak
across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his
fellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so
seldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted
Pontellier's invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest
and an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives
thrust upon him.
"I hope it isn't Arobin," he muttered to himself as he walked. "I hope
to heaven it isn't Alcee Arobin."