She had thrust her feet into slippers, and flung a
loose robe round her. She was ready. She looked at him as he stood
waiting, his black coat buttoned to the chin, his cap pulled down, his
boots in his hand. And the passionate almost hateful fascination
revived in her for a moment. It was not exhausted. His face was so
warm-looking, wide-eyed and full of newness, so perfect. She felt old,
old. She went to him heavily, to be kissed. He kissed her quickly. She
wished his warm, expressionless beauty did not so fatally put a spell
on her, compel her and subjugate her. It was a burden upon her, that
she resented, but could not escape. Yet when she looked at his straight
man's brows, and at his rather small, well-shaped nose, and at his
blue, indifferent eyes, she knew her passion for him was not yet
satisfied, perhaps never could be satisfied. Only now she was weary,
with an ache like nausea. She wanted him gone.
They went downstairs quickly. It seemed they made a prodigious noise.
He followed her as, wrapped in her vivid green wrap, she preceded him
with the light.
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