She did not
look at his blindness.
Isabel was always glad when they had passed through the dividing door
into their own regions of repose and beauty. She was a little afraid of
him, out there in the animal grossness of the back. His bearing also
changed, as he smelt the familiar, indefinable odour that pervaded his
wife's surroundings, a delicate, refined scent, very faintly spicy.
Perhaps it came from the pot-pourri bowls.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, arrested, listening. She watched him,
and her heart sickened. He seemed to be listening to fate.
'He's not here yet,' he said. 'I'll go up and change.'
'Maurice,' she said, 'you're not wishing he wouldn't come, are you?'
'I couldn't quite say,' he answered. 'I feel myself rather on the _qui
vive_.'
'I can see you are,' she answered. And she reached up and kissed his
cheek. She saw his mouth relax into a slow smile.
'What are you laughing at?' she said roguishly.
'You consoling me,' he answered.
'Nay,' she answered. 'Why should I console you? You know we love each
other--you know _how_ married we are! What does anything else matter?'
'Nothing at all, my dear.'
He felt for her face, and touched it, smiling.
'_You're_ all right, aren't you?' he asked, anxiously.
'I'm wonderfully all right, love,' she answered. 'It's you I am a little
troubled about, at times.'
'Why me?' he said, touching her cheeks delicately with the tips of his
fingers.
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