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He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. And talking of every conceivable thing.
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